


Like A Drug

by B_eden



Category: The Riftdale Chronicles (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Dependence - Freeform, Drug Use, Fear, Fear Play, Intense love, Kidnapping, Lima Syndrome, Lots of Drugs, M/M, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Rutting, Stockholm’s syndrome, fear kink, like really crazy lose your mind and go insane sex, like really intense love guys, so much drugs guys, submissive behavior, this is a messed up romance but it is a love story, unhealthy relationship, unhinged sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 00:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17839295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_eden/pseuds/B_eden
Summary: You can read this even if you're not familiar with the fandom, guys! I worked hard on this kidnapper/hostage dark love story.  If you like my other stuff you should love this!Is there any possible timeline with a redeemable Christian? Let’s find out! Christian and Bart are on the run. They slowly develop a dependence on each other through their adventures. Christian tries to reason with himself that his obsession with Bart is just Lima Syndrome where a kidnapper develops sympathy for their captive. What happens when Christian can’t find any reason to fight the feelings anymore? This takes place after Bart talks to Chief in the bar, but kind of mixes around canon after that as this takes place in a timeline that veers in a different direction from there. There is dirty kinky stuff in later chapters, but hang in there as we slowly get to it. The build up is so freakin’ worth it and it’s part of the experience. I assure you, though, it’ll be nice and dirty filthy nasty naughty, guyz.Or: In which Christian is a shameless animal in the bedroom, and Bart is overly dramatic and acting like he’s above all that nastiness, but Christian can’t get enough of that uppity theatrical bullshit.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Read this even if you’re not familiar with The Riftdale Chronicles fandom! If you like my other stuff you’ll love this! It’a an excellent and intense dark kidnapper/hostage romance and I tried to make it to where you’ll have a basic grasp of what’s going on even if you haven’t yet watched TRC web series. I’m proud of this story, dammit! I worked hard and poured my soul into it! Then you can go search youtube for The Riftdale Chronicles and snort it all like the good stuff! Omg I love The Riftdale Chronicles so much you guys. It is addictive and the creator/actor is a freaking genius oh my god I swear. 
> 
> All you need to know for this fanfiction story is that Christian (the serial killer con man priest) is a very, very bad man, and Bart (his hostage) is an eccentric and innocent artist with low self esteem, and ‘Dad’ is this godlike being who is a father to everyone everywhere, and in this story Dad cares a lot about Christian and is searching the realms for an illusive timeline where Christian might be redeemable.

Bart’s wide eyes scanned the dark alleyway in hesitation before he tripped when Christian pushed him.

 

 

“Get moving,” the priest growled.

 

 

“B-but, Christian! Th-this place looks, uh, rather repugnant.” Bart’s shoulders were raised high as they passed a disheveled man who reached for him. He was mumbling something about how he had what Bart needed.

 

 

“Get off him.” Christian didn’t hesitate to wave his gun as he shoved the stranger away from his hostage. He used more force than necessary, and the man fell back into a mound of garbage bags.

 

 

“Oh! Oh, my...” Bart had reflexively stepped behind the con artist, and his fingers brushed against Christian’s sleeve as he unconsciously sought for reassurance.

 

 

_Fuck._ Christian winced inwardly as he realized he’d done another thing to throw his needy hostage deeper into Stockholm’s Syndrome. He jerked his arm away from Bart’s touch.

 

 

“C-couldn’t you find us an abandoned house in a safer neighborhood? Possibly? I mean, here, someone might...might...harm us.”

 

 

“I’m going to fucking harm you if you don’t get moving,” he hissed as he readied the gun. When Bart turned to him with impossibly wide eyes, he lowered the weapon. “What the fuck is wrong with you now?”

 

 

Bart was scared of him. Too scared of him. Before Bart had gone into that bar a few days ago to get a stupid glass of milk, he’d been on edge, but in a naive kind of way. Christian had even been annoyed that he could easily tell Bart was holding out hope that Christian wouldn’t actually hurt him. Now he was whimpering and flinching far more often.

 

 

“Well? What is it?” The night air was cold and neither one of them were wearing jackets. Christian was not taking note of how hard Bart was shivering. He was not wondering if it was all from fear or if he was uncomfortable. He was simply trying to decide if the man in front of him was about to flip a fight or flight switch, and he was being ready to respond to that efficiently.

_Fuck._ He was clearly wondering if the guy was comfortable. “Spit it out, Bert.” He purposefully called him by the wrong name now in an attempt to keep his distance. The priest told himself that the flash of pain that crossed Bart’s features in response pleased him. “I’m freezing my fucking nuts off out here. What’s wrong with you?”

 

 

“N-nothing! Nothing at all! I only, um, forgot which way you wanted me to go, is all.” He searched Christian’s eyes then, and it made the priest uncomfortable.

 

 

Christian put his gun away and tossed his bag over his shoulder as he fought not to lose his patience and kill the artist. After all, the guy was still useful as long as he kept making more shitty art for Christian to scam people into buying.

 

 

There was a gunshot about half a block away, and Bart’s eyes widened dramatically before all awareness left him. Christian automatically stepped forward to catch him as the artist fainted because of the loud noise. The priest’s own actions shocked him, and he yanked his hands away to let the guy crumple to the ground.

 

 

_What the fuck was that?_ Christian cursed himself. _Fuck._ He needed to be careful that he didn’t start developing that messed up Lima Syndrome shit; the opposite of Stockholm’s Syndrome where a kidnapper starts to sympathize with their victim. Christian had never had a problem with it before, but he was smart enough to take note that it was possible so that he could rationalize with the feelings if they ever tried to get in his way. The dangerous condition could quickly get a criminal killed if they became too distracted by their hostage or even started to trust them enough to give them space. He pretended that he didn’t already routinely leave Bart alone at their hideout as he thought on the matter. _Fuck._ At his hideout, not their hideout.

 

 

Christian wanted a clean slate. He wanted his mind wiped and his record scourged. Falling for someone who would remember him and know his every dirty secret was not in the plan. Christian had been paying far too much attention to the artist’s body language. He was memorizing his every weakness and all his random quirks. Worse yet, he kept finding himself moving to work around all Bart’s negative triggers as if it was possible to truly keep him comfortable while he was in the process of being kidnapped.

 

 

He didn’t have time for this. Christian dragged his sleeve along his drug-abused nose and snuffled as he began to itch for more cocaine. He couldn’t afford to take anyone else’s feelings or wellbeing into consideration. Maybe he should just leave the artist there on the ground. Maybe that would be what’s best for him, anyway.

 

 

He wasn’t going to leave Bart helpless in the alley.

 

 

He huffed as he struggled to position him better to throw him over his shoulder. He told himself that he only had to go half a block, and the money he was getting from the artist was worth the effort. He didn’t try to process why he scooped up the stupid beret hat that seemed to be the artist’s psychological security blanket instead of leaving it abandoned on the ground.

 

 

Once in the house, he hefted Bart onto the tattered couch. It was the only piece of furniture in the abandoned house other than an old recliner and a coffee table that Bart had moved close to the wall so that he could use the light from the one lamp they had to work on his art.

 

 

He dug into Bart’s backpack of art supplies until he found the last bit of their food, and he pocketed it. Then he punched a hole in the wall after he confirmed that, even though there was electricity in the front of the house, and the toilets would flush, he still couldn’t get the goddamn heater to work.

 

 

It was about half an hour before Bart bolted upright while making a high-pitched noise of confusion. His eyes were forever searching for Christian, so the priest wasn’t surprised when his attention landed on him within seconds of him waking.

 

 

“C-Christian?” His chest rose and fell rapidly. “H-how did I get here?”

 

 

The priest didn’t answer him. He only stared at him with thick loathing that caused Bart to sink down several inches. Christian’s lip twitched with disgust when Bart looked down to find that the priest had placed their only thin little blanket over his vulnerable body. When Bart’s feet lowered to the floor, and he stood, the priest found himself losing his patience for no reason at all.

 

 

“Where are you going, Bert?” He spat.

 

 

“J-just to the restroom. Yeesh.” Bart hesitated in the doorway, and it took Christian a moment to realize he was waiting for his permission. He flicked his head in the direction of the hallway, and Bart worried his hands before he decided that meant it was okay. Christian’s ears tuned into every sound after that as he noted Bart’s behavior as suspicious.

 

 

It didn’t take long before the artist came back into the room looking at his feet insecurely. “H-hey. Christian? Are you. Are you selling my artwork?” When the priest only stared at him through hateful, sunken sockets, he took it as a confirmation. “Why would you do that? I thought...I thought that you..liked my art.”

 

 

“I do.” Christian’s tone was razorblades, and he knew it couldn’t possibly be comforting. “That’s why I sell it. I believe in you.” He sounded more like the snake in the garden than a holy man, but Bart’s eyebrows lifted pitifully like he wanted to believe him.

 

 

Bart’s lips twitched into a hesitant smile even though Christian was lifting their last energy bar to his mouth and eating it for himself. “R-really?”

 

 

“Mmhmm.” He ground out the sound as he exaggerated his chewing. Bart’s eyes dropped to the food and Christian was sure he saw a flash of longing there before the artist shifted his attention to the table. It took some time before Christian noticed that the simple action had caused him to stop chewing. He gnashed his teeth as he tossed the other half of the bar onto the coffee table to indicate he was through with it just in case Bart wanted it.

 

 

“S-so.” Bart cleared his throat and did this thing where he straightens his back when he’s trying to summon his confidence. It made Christian’s lip curl again, though he wasn’t sure if it was disgust or amusement this time. He could take Bart right back down a few notches if he wanted to. “So...what if I...if I decided I did not want to make any more art? If I need a bit of a break to, um, stir up some creative energy?”

 

 

Christian lowered his feet to the ground and rested his arms on his knees as he took his time chewing the food left in his mouth. He drew his gun but didn’t look at the artist as he ran his tongue around in his mouth to clean his teeth while he thought on what Bart had said. He pretended to be disinterested with how the artist was unconsciously backing away from him and worrying his hands.

 

 

When Christian stood, Bart began to stammer even though he had yet to turn his attention to him. “I am n-not saying th-that I am going to take a break, necessarily.” He laughed nervously, choking on the noise when Christian turned his eyes to him. “I just, kind of, wondered how you would...feel...if I did. Th-that is all.” He tripped backwards when the priest started walking towards him. “Oh, dear god!” Bart was only a few inches from the wall when Christian crammed a palm against his chest and aggressively shoved him back to hold him in place.

 

 

“That. Would be.” Christian looked to the ceiling as if he’d find the rest of his sentence there. Then his dark eyes turned back to his captive. “A problem.”

 

 

Christian snuffled and ran his arm along his nose. It was the same hand he was using to hold the gun, and Bart’s head thumped heavily back against the wall in an instinct to get away from the threat. The vibration made his glasses slide down his nose, but he was too afraid to move to right them.

 

 

Christian raised the gun to Bart’s nose and used the weapon to press his glasses back into place. He left the barrel between his eyes far longer than necessary as he enjoyed the artist’s shuddering breaths and crossed-eyes.

 

 

Bart’s lungs refused to function properly as his eyes locked on the weapon Christian was holding against his head. He had seen him kill others with the same gun. He’d seen what it would do to a skull and had witnessed it as there was a human life present in the panicking eyes one moment and then nothing but a void shell a second later. Bart didn’t want to be a void shell.

 

 

Would Christian really hurt him? He hadn’t yet. The cop at the bar had said so many things about the priest, but Bart hadn’t known whether or not the people they had ran into so far had deserved what Christian had done to them. He had assumed there was more to the story than what he understood. Something in him trusted that the con artist was doing what was necessary to keep them both alive while he dragged Bart along with him on this wild ride.

 

 

Bart really didn’t want to die. His swimming mind kept coming back to that one truth even as his depression gnarled away at his self-esteem and told him that no one would even come to his funeral. His closed-casket funeral. His parents had disowned him. He had no friends other than maybe Clairvoyance, but he might not even leave his house to identify Bart’s body because of his paranoia.

 

 

_Oh, god!_ Who would there be to alert Clairvoyance that he was getting a little too extreme if Bart was killed? He couldn’t think about that now. He needed to try and talk his way out of this, but Bart wasn’t an experienced fast-talker like Christian. He couldn’t do it.

 

 

_Please no!_ He was going to die right here. How long would it be before anyone would find his rotting body in this abandoned house in a bad part of town? What were his estranged parents going to think when they finally found out? They’d think he was a squatter snorting the cocaine Christian was bound to leave traces of across the table where his shitty art would be abandoned half-finished.

 

 

Bart wanted to think that someone would miss him, but so far no one had even noticed he’d been kidnapped. He had no one other than Christian. He’d thought that he was a fan of his work. Was he? Bart had to at least be impressed that the con artist was managing to sound like he thought the work was worth something for him to be selling it.

 

 

_No, no, no!_ Bart was going to die, and he was still a virgin. He’d never been touched. Never even been kissed. He at least wanted to have kissed someone before he died! Was it going to hurt? The cop had said that the priest’s hostage would be lucky if he gave them a quick death. Bart didn’t like pain, but it was hard for him to hope that Christian would be merciful and go ahead and pull the trigger right between his eyes.

 

 

Christian wondered what all was going on behind Bart’s glossy eyes. The priest looked down when he felt a slight tug against his clothing. Bart didn’t seem to notice that his fingers were grasping for Christian again in his distress. Well wasn’t that just fucking sweet? He looked back up when Bart tried to speak.

 

 

“C-Christian...”

 

 

His voice was so small. Christian wondered if his tone would sound the same if he was fucking him. Would he keep that ridiculous, haughty accent with Christian’s hand around his throat and his cock buried deep in his ass? Christian might like to hear that. Would he tremble like this, or would his body express arousal and over-stimulation in a different way? Would his shaking pool in his legs or shoulders instead of waving across his entire soul the way it did now? Christian would notice even the slightest hint of difference in his body language if there was one. Would he say Christian’s name with that same searching hiccup? Would he mewl just so if he kissed him?

 

 

Wait.

 

 

There would be no kissing in this scenario.

 

 

Scratch that.

 

 

There would be absolutely no fucking at all. Christian frowned as he put a stop to that entire line of thinking, but his arm fell heavily to his side just the same to give the artist a reprieve from his terror.

 

 

Bart’s shoulders relaxed and his fingers loosened their grip as common sense came back to him enough for him to process that it wasn’t safe to touch the man. “I...I think I am feeling inspired.”

 

 

“That so.” Christian didn’t try not to sound skeptical.

 

 

“Oh, indeed.” Bart straightened his back again as if an artist’s inspiration was a sacred blessing he’d been bestowed with. “I am feeling creative.” His eyes darted around the room to avoid Christian’s unflinching glare. When Christian turned away and went back to the recliner, Bart forced his relieved exhale to be mostly silent.

 

 

Bart was surprised to find that he truly was inspired, if only because his psyche needed an outlet for his emotions to prevent his heart from exploding. Christian growled that he would return soon, and that Bart better stay put, and then he left him alone in the house. Bart drew some rough sketches and pencil outlines for the few hours that he was gone. Bart was too afraid to leave while in that neighborhood in any case. Besides, where would he go even if he decided to flee? Back to his house alone to draw without passion or purpose?

 

 

Bart only allowed himself to cry on the couch for a few minutes before he pulled the blanket around him and went back to sit on the floor in front of the table. He really wished the heater would work in this place.

 

 

He withdrew his paints about the time Christian came back and dumped a plastic bag of food in the center of the floor. Bart supposed that was his way of saying he would share. He smiled at him, but Christian only belched as he set a case of beer next to the recliner and plopped down. It was clear the priest had gotten into more cocaine at some point in his travels to the store. Bart turned back to his work as he heard him open one of the drinks.

 

 

After forty-five minutes of silence, Bart stretched his stiff neck and looked over his shoulder. Christian was doing nothing but staring at him with a deep frown. Bart gasped and whipped back around to focus down on his work. The artist made a gentle noise of frustration when his hand suddenly refused to draw a straight line. He discretely held his hand up for inspection and found that it was quivering. He yipped when the priest spoke to him.

 

 

“Your milk’s getting warm.”

 

 

The artist’s heart leapt with hope as he turned around to look at the pile of food. There was a small plastic bottle of milk. Christian had taken note of something he liked! That’s something that friends do! He looked up to the con artist as he snatched up the drink with far too much needy excitement, but Christian only tilted his beer to his lips and continued to glare at him with undivided attention.

 

 

Why wouldn’t Christian stare at him? The priest gnashed his teeth. Bart wouldn’t get out of his fucking head, so he might as well watch him as he tried to decide what to inevitably do with him. He would have killed any other hostage long before now.

 

 

Insurance fraud was on the top of his con-list as the most liable to get him a good chunk of cash out of the guy. He could simply force him to marry him, keep him around until he tried that shit about refusing to make art for him anymore, and then let him die during some random dangerous situation he was bound to drag him into. Christian would inherit whatever art he had left and collect on a hefty insurance policy which he would take out the same day as their shotgun wedding.

 

 

Christian had to wonder about this plan, though. It seemed an awful lot like he was just trying to find an excuse to keep him around longer. He had to figure out where his mind was really at, here. Christian cursed under his breath and pinched his aching head. When Bart turned around in response to the noise, he aimed hateful eyes at him and bared his teeth causing the artist to whimper and turn away.

 

 

Bart pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He wondered if Christian was cold. He didn’t act like it. Maybe the drugs made his blood pump faster and heated his skin. Bart was pretty sure that if his kidnapper wanted the blanket, he would just take it from him.

 

 

The artist shivered from more than just the cold. He could feel Christian’s eyes on him. He sat down his brush as he considered turning back to his pencil. At least with that he could erase the crooked lines that seemed to mirror his own fluttering heartbeat. It was useless. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants, carefully placed his glasses on the table, and moved to lie on the couch.

 

 

No sooner did he move his place in the room, he heard Christian’s chair creaking. Bart pretended to adjust the covers around him and snuck a glance at the priest. He had tossed a leg over the chair arm in this cocky, almost royal-looking position to shift his direction to continue watching him.

 

 

_Oh, god, I’m going to die. Or get raped. Or both. Or worse._ Bart cradled his arms around his chest and snuggled as close as he could get against the back of the couch. He was physically, emotionally, and psychologically exhausted, but it still took him quite some time to fall asleep.

 

 

When he next opened his eyes, the house was dark. He was sorry that he turned around to investigate the priest’s whereabouts when he saw he was still in the chair in the same position. The green light from a traffic light too close to the curtain-less window illuminated his face, and Bart could see that he was still looking at him. The light flickered to yellow, and then to red, and Bart clenched his eyes shut as he turned back around.

 

 

Christian was wondering why he had yet to rip the blanket off the guy. He was cold now. Instead he just watched Bart’s trembling slowly dissipate as he fell back to sleep after scaring himself looking at him again. Or maybe it was that Christian was scaring him by watching him sleep like some kind of psychopath. No. That wasn’t it. It was the artist’s fault if he was terrified. _Fuck._ Why was he acknowledging that his hostage was afraid as if there was any other reasonable range of emotions that he could or would offer him?

 

 

Christian pushed to his feet and stalked toward the couch. His hand clamped on the blanket, but he hesitated to yank it away from him. Then he hesitated longer. The reaction made him draw his gun and aim it at the back of the artist’s head.

 

 

He stood over him for several minutes before he returned the safety on the weapon and sat it on the floor next to the couch. He lifted the blanket and slid in behind the artist on the couch. He expected the warm body to stiffen, and he was annoyed when he was correct.

 

 

“Christian! Christian! Christian!”

 

 

Christian sighed long and loud as his hostage did that goddamn thing again where he started calling out his name when he was afraid. “Shut. Up.” He tucked his arm around his waist only because it was the comfortable thing to do, and he tried to push away the hint of warmth in his chest in response to the artist’s dependent behavior.

 

 

“C-Christian?” Bart’s hand clasped onto his for security, but Christian didn’t scold him for it.

 

 

“Of fucking course it’s me. Who else would it be?”

 

 

Bart stammered, grabbed the side of the couch, and then his hand went back to the priest’s when he tightened his hold to prevent him from trying to move away. Christian figured if he just acted casual, like there was nothing out of the ordinary about this at all, the guy would surely follow his lead and settle down.

 

 

When the whimpering panic attack continued, Christian sighed again. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

 

 

“W-what?” Bart’s lungs were stuttering violently.

 

 

“Writhing around like that and making all those little noises.” He aggressively shoved his whole body flush against him, and it harmlessly pressed his hostage against the cushions while shocking him into submission.

 

 

The artist seized up completely still, and he tried not to make another sound, but he wasn’t even aware he was speaking when he said Christian’s name again. Bart’s heart was thrumming hard enough for Christian to feel it through his chest. It was hard not to imagine the artist might go through the same motions during climax. The priest inwardly groaned as he felt a stab of sympathy for him. This was a slippery fucking slope.

 

 

“You’re alright.” Christian muttered.

 

 

“I-I-I am?”

 

 

“Look. Bert. It’s cold. There’s one blanket, and one place to stretch out. Just relax. I’m not hurting you.”

 

 

“Y-you’re not?” His question turned into a confirmation after he took inventory of his body. “You’re not. It’s...it’s okay.”

 

 

“Yes.” Christian rolled his eyes to have something physically shitty to do to prevent him from saying something shitty out loud to the terrified man.

 

 

“C-Christian?”

 

 

“For fucks sake.” Christian rolled to his back, almost falling off the couch in the process, and retrieved his gun. He fired it at the ceiling, and Bart stiffened before going completely limp when he fainted.

 

 

There was no reason for Christian not to indulge in cuddling up against him for several moments now that he was unconscious. He wrapped his arm around him far more securely than he had before, and he inhaled deeply against the back of his neck before smelling his hair as well as his skin. He relaxed against him, cursed his existence, and fell into a sound sleep faster than he had in years.

 

 


	2. Two

Bart awoke to flailing limbs, curses, and the sound of Christian pleading with something. The artist flew up to sit on the back of the couch to escape bodily harm. His brows knit with concern as he watched the con artist, now on his back centered on the couch, trapped in a hell behind closed lids.

 

 

“Christian.” His voice was soothing as he leaned over him while trying to stay perched on the back of the couch. “Wake up. Hey. Wake-ACK!”

 

 

Christian’s eyes flew open, and his fist tangled in the front of Bart’s shirt. The artist didn’t even see him reach for his weapon. All he knew was that he’d been pulled down on top of the priest, he was only inches away from his face, and there was a gun pointed at his temple.

 

 

“Christian it’s me! It’s Bart! You were h-having a nightmare!” He wasn’t comforted when the priest’s eyes flashed with recognition only for him to cock the gun. “Oh! Oh, my! I was only trying to wake you!” He wanted to close his eyes as the priest’s intense, angry stare bore into him, but his lids weren’t cooperating. “C-Christian...”

 

 

Bart shuddered in relief when the priest hit the safety and aimed the gun to the ceiling instead of at his head. He still didn’t release him, however, and the artist found the position highly awkward. Christian had dropped one foot to the floor and bent his other knee, and Bart had wound up between his legs with his hands braced on the couch on either side of Christian’s body. The frame of the couch was supporting one hand well enough, but the broken spring beneath the cushion under his other hand was possibly the culprit of why their faces were now so close.

 

 

The artist licked his lips as he tried to decide what to say to defuse the situation. He only stuttered, however, when Christian’s eyes followed the movement and continued to linger on his lips afterwards. His gun arm went limp, but his fist only tightened on Bart’s shirt.

 

 

The con artist tilted his head almost as if he was considering kissing him, and Bart palpitated with confusion. Christian didn’t make a move, however, and his voice was distant as he rumbled, “What time is it?”

 

 

“Uh...uh...um...” It took him too long to remember that Christian was asking him because he was wearing a watch. He didn’t trust his shaky arms to hold him up to check it, so he continued to stammer until Christian dropped his gun and yanked his arm up for him. Bart collapsed against the priest’s chest as he wrenched his arm to look at the watch.

 

 

“We’ve got plenty of time.” Christian wriggled around and hooked his arm over Bart’s neck to keep him in place. “Go back to sleep.”

 

 

Bart whimpered helplessly. He was wide awake now, and Christian’s morning wood was shamelessly jabbing him in the stomach. “C-Christian? NO DON’T! OKAY!” He clenched his eyes shut when Christian fumbled at his side and lifted the gun.

 

 

Bart swallowed heavily and moved to tuck his arms underneath Christian to get into a more comfortable position. The priest lifted his back for him before immediately drifting back to sleep. Bart gulped as he tried not to make note of how huge the man’s cock was as it seemed to threaten him with a healthy heartbeat in response to his warmth pressing down against Christian’s body. How was this not strange to the priest? He was so weird sometimes; batting Bart’s hands away when he was nervously touching him for protection, but at the same time not hesitating to invade Bart’s personal space at the drop of a dime.

 

 

Bart’s nervous quivering couldn’t be helping his case. He carefully shifted in an attempt to find a more chaste position, but it was futile as it only caused Christian to groan in his sleep. His fingers clenched against Bart’s shirt. The artist had to do something, though, or else Christian would eventually wake up, and he might freak out when he realized what he’d demanded him to do when he wasn’t all there. God, Bart really didn’t want to die.

 

 

His eyes drifted to the gun. He couldn’t do it. He could barely even force himself to consider reaching for it. He wouldn’t have the nerve to shoot the man. Christian was his friend. He’d only manage to piss him off, and then he would kill Bart instead. The artist felt helpless, and hopeless, and afraid, but then, for some odd reason, he fell asleep to the lulling rise and fall of the body beneath him.

 

 

They hadn’t gone to sleep until early in the morning, so it wasn’t surprising that they easily slept into that evening. Bart woke up once when Christian shoved him onto the floor unceremoniously and got up to go to the bathroom. Bart waited for him to come back before he took a turn. Bart nervously eyed the priest before he walked into the hallway toward the bathroom. Christian stood in the center of the room and chugged a drink as if he’d been parched for hours. He made no move to stop Bart from walking out of his sight.

 

 

After Bart washed his hands, he opened the door and gasped to find Christian leaning his back against the hallway wall and staring at the bathroom door waiting for him. A quick once-over confirmed that the priest had gone too long without a fix. His hands were fidgeting, and his eyes were more impatient than usual. He was sweating lightly, and his hair was a mess. His lip curled as he clenched his teeth. Bart gulped, but he couldn’t think of anything he’d done to upset him.

 

 

“Go back to sleep.” Christian snarled as he pushed past him and slammed the door.

 

 

Bart worried his hands as he became concerned with why the con artist was going in the bathroom again. If he was sick or needed something, though, surely, he’d tell him. He found a bottle of water in the mess on the floor and sipped at it as he wished he had a fancy glass to put it in. He didn’t want to chance Christian coming back out to find that he had disobeyed him, so he collapsed along the couch on his back and stared at the ceiling.

 

 

It was a little while before Christian came back out. Bart sank down a bit when he came to stand over the couch and looked down at him with the same aggressive aura. He was far sweatier than he’d been before.

 

 

“C-can I help you with someth-”

 

 

“Take off your clothes.”

 

 

“Come again?” But Bart had heard him all too clearly. His hands flew up to cradle his chest as if Christian could already see through his shirt, and he sat up with an air that he’d been offended by what he’d heard.

 

 

“I said take. Off. Your. Clothes.” His motionless glare was terrifying, but he wasn’t holding the gun.

 

 

“C-Christian?” Bart whimpered when a wicked smirk that didn’t reach his eyes tugged at the corner of Christian’s mouth in response to the artist instinctively saying his name. “I...I...I will do no such thing! Y-you c-can just-”

 

 

“If you’re still talkin’, it better be to beg me not to make this hurt.”

 

 

“Oh, dear god!” Bart pulled his feet onto the couch and hugged his knees, but his eyes couldn’t stop searching the priest’s. He looked tired; far too tired to do what Bart was assuming he was planning. Then, Christian snorted a short puff of laughter that also didn’t reflect his current expression. When he blinked once, slow and serenely before meeting his eyes again, Bart felt a twinge of hope.

 

 

Christian gently pushed against Bart’s chest while guiding his legs to stretch out on the couch. “I’m just fucking with you. But lie back.”

 

 

“Y-you are? Christian, you are? O-only joking?” He was quaking as Christian nudged his legs apart and settled into the same place Bart had been when they were sleeping before.

 

 

“Yeah.” He rested his head on Bart’s chest and closed his eyes. He grunted with a hint of irritation when Bart spoke again.

 

 

“R-really?”

 

 

“I said yeah.” He growled. “I just jerked off twice, if it makes you feel any better.”

 

 

“W-why would th-that make me feel better?” Bart’s eyes were wide as his hands clutched the sides of the couch unsure of where to rest them.

 

 

“Because I got it outta my system.” He mumbled sleepily.

 

 

“Oh. Oh, my. Well then. Okay.” So, he had something to get out of his system. Did that tension have anything to do with Bart, or was it something to do with the cocaine or lack thereof? Whatever the cause of that frustration, did Bart need to worry that the serial killer would use him to quench it? He shivered. “You really scared me there.” He laughed nervously.

 

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

 

“You sh-shouldn’t do that. What if I’d...lost control...of my...if I...couldn’t hold it, and I...got too nervous...and...” He was trying to find a self-respecting way to threaten that he’d urinate himself if Christian hurt him. It probably wasn’t true, as far as Bart knew, but he’d heard forcing yourself to do so or to throw up would be a good way to detour sexual attackers when all else failed.

 

 

“You just pissed twenty minutes ago.” When Bart only gulped in response because the comment showed that Christian may have thought it out a little too much, he decided it didn’t matter to comfort him. “Right. Whatever. Noted, Bert. If I rape you, do it in the shower. Got it. Now go to sleep.”

 

 

Bart was petrified now, but it seemed the more he was in need of reassurance, the more comforting their current position felt to be. He was just starting to relax to the embrace when Christian sighed heavily.

 

 

“I can’t fucking sleep with your fucking heart hammering away in my ear! Knock it off!”

 

 

“I c-can not stop my heart, Christian!” It was Bart’s first defense, but then he realized his mistake. Christian could stop his heart if it pleased him. “Y-you’re the one who scared me in the first place!”

 

 

“That what you are? Scared?” Christian was skeptical again.

 

 

“W-what else would it be?”

 

 

“You forget I’m lying on you? I can feel that. Something about all that turned you on. Now stop fucking me in your head and go to sleep.” Christian was glad that his smirk was hidden in Bart’s chest when the artist responded with a long slew of his forced haughtiness and stammering defenses.

 

 

The artist stopped talking abruptly when Christian pulled Bart’s hands down to rest on his back and then adjusted his own position to wrap his arms beneath him. Bart didn’t mean to sigh so pitifully in response to the embrace, but he quickly melted down into the couch as his defenses drifted away.

 

 

Bart next awoke alone in a dark house. He had the feeling something had happened to wake him up, and when he heard voices at the door, he sat up with a start. His shoulders relaxed when he heard Christian’s gravely tone as he led a large, strange man into the house.

 

 

Christian was holding a large brick of cocaine, and he dropped it onto the table as he flicked on the lamp and motioned for the man to sit in the recliner. Bart forced a smile to the stranger as he nodded and gave him a mostly toothless and overwhelmingly predatory grin. The man leered at Bart when Christian left the room.

 

 

Bart fidgeted nervously and tried to make small talk. His eyes lingered on the plastic tarp he’d been using to protect the floor from paint. For some reason it was now tossed over the recliner. What the hell had Christian been up to while he’d been asleep?

 

 

“Stop talking.” Christian snapped at the artist when he returned with a small plastic bag. He spoke with the man himself, however, as he cut a minuscule portion of the drug into the bag and dropped it into the stranger’s lap. “Now get outta here.”

 

 

“Don’t I get more than this?”

 

 

Christian scoffed and plopped down on the couch far away from Bart. “No. You owed me more than this in the first place. You’re lucky I’m giving you a cut-”

 

 

“How much for that pretty mouth?” The man nodded at Bart.

 

 

Bart’s pretty mouth dropped open in shock, but he snapped it shut when it made the man arch a brow in interest.

 

 

Christian was trying not to grind his teeth in response to the man interrupting him. He took far too long to answer, and Bart almost relaxed his shoulders when he finally spoke until he processed his words. “How much you got on you?”

 

 

“Twenty bucks.”

 

 

Bart looked to the con artist with pleading eyes. Then he shifted his attention back and forth between them as they haggled.

 

 

Christian snorted some powder that had made its way onto his hand in the process of handling the larger amount. “Two hundred for his mouth. Three for the whole thing.”

 

 

The man whistled. “Kind of steep.”

 

 

“He’s never been touched.” Christian ignored when Bart’s expression became even more accusing as he told his secrets. “Not even kissed.”

 

 

“Why should I pay more for less experience?”

 

 

“Fuck you. You know first time’s a fucking prize. It always costs more.” Christian rested his ankle over his knee and sank down as if he was willing to take his time with the transaction.

 

 

“He doesn’t look willing.”

 

 

“That a problem?” The priest didn’t look at Bart when he whimpered. He leaned forward and dug around their food pile for a candy bar.

 

 

“It’s just more work for me, is all. How about two hundred, and you talk him into cooperating?”

 

 

“Tell you what.” The noise of Christian fumbling with the candy wrapper was loud in Bart’s ears as he fought to keep breathing. “Three fifty and I’ll knock him out. Four and I’ll hold him down for you.” He raised his arms when Bart threw his arms around his waist and buried his face in his side. His only reaction was to rest an elbow on his shivering body and bite into the candy as he waited for the man to make a counter offer. “Do you even have two hundred on you, or are you wasting my time?”

 

 

“C-Christian...” Bart looked up to plead with him, but the priest looked down with a wide-eyed frown of disapproval that he’d just given the man his name. Bart had no idea what he was angry about, however, so he only thought he was mad about him touching him. Bart sat up and covered his face as his heart broke.

 

 

“Whatever.” Christian threw the candy to the floor. “Fifty and you can watch me take him. I don’t care what you do while you watch. Just don’t touch me.”

 

 

“Deal.” The man loosened his pants and sat his gun on the arm of the chair.

 

 

“Christian...Christian...” Bart whined when Christian stood and drew his gun.

 

 

“Just trust me, baby.” Christian grabbed his arm and yanked him forward to fall on his knees on the floor in front of the recliner. He nudged his combat boot against his back and the artist fell onto his side.

 

 

“Christian! Please don’t do this!” Bart rolled onto his back to look up at the priest now towering over him with cold eyes. He didn’t want to look behind him at the recliner as the stranger chuckled.

 

 

“Take your clothes off.” Christian’s lip twitched almost humorously as he aimed the gun at him. Bart was frozen. “You want me to make this a show? I guess I don’t mind to-” He fired the gun, and everything went black for the artist.

 

 

It was only seconds later when Bart awoke to a random question about Van Gogh and robotically corrected Christian’s mispronunciation of the name. His brows knit in despair when the situation came flooding back to him. Christian was still standing over him with the gun, but now he had retrieved the candy. He was looking down at him while he ate it like he had all the time in the world. Bart’s hands searched along his body as he panicked that he might have been disrobed. Everything was still in place, so he looked back up to the priest.

 

 

“Christian! I don’t want to do this! P-please!”

 

 

“Okay. I hear you. Christ.” Christian spoke while he chewed. He pressed his foot against a bottle of water so that it rolled toward the artist. “Drink something. Take a breath. When’s the last time you ate?”

 

 

“W-what?”

 

 

“You might need a little energy for this.” Christian only hummed when Bart scrambled to cling to his leg.

 

 

“Please! Please! I trust you! Christian, I trust you!”

 

 

The priest overexaggerated his sigh. “Fine. I’ll do all the hard work myself.”

 

 

“H-hard work?” Bart was sobbing uncontrollably. “W-what are you g-going to do to m-me?”

 

 

“I’m going to make you eat, and then I’m going to wrap the body in plastic and toss it down the stairs into the basement.”

 

 

“Oh, god! I don’t want to die! Don’t throw me in the basement!” He didn’t even want to know what kind of inuendo Christian meant by making him eat.

 

 

“Fuck’s sake. I’m not going to throw you in the basement.” Christian knelt beside him, pressing him away from his leg just long enough to let Bart throw his arms around his shoulders instead once he was on his level. He made a mental note that, when Bart was flustered or sleepy, he would often drop the strange accent thing where he refused to use contractions. “Look.”

 

 

“I don’t want to look at him!” Bart struggled when Christian grasped his chin and forced him to look at the recliner. “Oh...”

 

 

The man was dead. Christian had shot him once he’d had him convinced not to reach for his own gun while he thought Christian was getting into threatening the pitiful man at his feet. A quick flick of the wrist had been enough to best him.

 

 

Bart wiped at his eyes and sniffled. “You h-had that planned all along?” Was that why the recliner was covered with the plastic tarp?

 

 

“Well.” Christian sounded a little accusing, then. “I was trying to see how much money he had on him to decide if it was worth the hassle of killing him over it. Then you went and told him my name, and since he had already seen enough to put together that I’m the crazy serial killer around here, he had to go. He did have three hundred bucks on him, though. Cheap bastard.” He clasped Bart’s chin as he examined him. “That mouth is definitely worth at least that.”

 

 

“Christian!” Bart made a strangled sound before he pulled his face away and looked to the body. Christian was surprised to find that he also liked the way Bart said his name when he was chiding him. “We cannot keep it here.” Bart whined before he took a swig from the water with the same needy tremble in his hand as if it was liquor. “The body will start to smell.”

 

 

Christian stiffened. He had expected his delicate hostage to be more upset about the dead body, not coldly reflect on how it would affect their surroundings. He took note of this slip of cold-heartedness, because it might hint that the guy had enough survival instinct to play mind games with him. He might have the ability to take advantage of Christian’s weaknesses. Such a thing could get the priest killed.

 

 

“We won’t be here long enough for it to smell.” Christian was letting him get too close. He was feeling too much of what the artist was feeling; being far too nice to him. He needed to remind him that, just because he’d yet to beat or rape him, he was still the ultimate bad guy around here. Where was he going wrong? Maybe it had been the snuggling? Christian wasn’t willing to give that up yet.

 

 

Christian’s eyes darkened. “What else am I supposed to do with garbage that’s run out of its usefulness? It was like he wanted to slowly rot in the basement or something.” He pinched his forehead when the comment hit the mark far too perfectly.

 

 

Bart’s eyes widened and he seemed suddenly mesmerized by his water bottle. “Oh. Well, then. Right.” He laughed nervously. “Of course.”

 

 

“Look.” Maybe Christian was being paranoid. The naive motherfucker didn’t have the slightest clue how to play somebody else. “While I do this, you eat something. Play with your fucking paints for a while or some shit.”

 

 

He didn’t tell him that he’d made a fucking killing off selling his last batch of art, and that, even with a lot of that money funneling into drugs and his other secretive endeavors, they should be comfortable for quite some time. Not that he bought the drugs with that money in the first place.

 

 

Strangely enough, Christian co-owed a big casino on the edge of town. He’d helped con the deed to it out of some asshole who was giving the other co-owner a hard time, and he was rather proud of that one. Though anyone else would have been living it up on that kind of funding, though, for Christian, it was just never enough. He needed the rush of scamming people; needed the chaos of bullets flying at him. Besides, his co-owner, Steve, had all the access to their money and kept Christian’s fingers at a reasonable distance from ruining the business.

 

 

The priest’s voice was too dry as he watched Bart try to fight tears while he absently scratched at the label on the water bottle. “When the sun’s up, we’ll go somewhere. Get out some without me pointing a gun at someone for once. Maybe. Get something more filling to eat.”

 

 

“L-like at a restaurant?” Bart eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and hope.

 

 

“Yeeeeeah.” Christian nodded for too long. “Or a bar, at least.” He was supposed to meet a guy at the bar, but he didn’t want to tell Bart about that yet. He might ask questions that the con artist didn’t want to answer; didn’t know all the answers to himself.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was dark inside the shitty bar even though it was daylight outside, and the characters inside were even darker still. Bart was doing that thing again where he hung right on Christian’s heels, running into him constantly and instinctively pinching the fabric of his sleeve in trepidation no matter how many times Christian jerked away from him.

 

 

They ordered food, but before it was brought out, Bart hummed that he had to go to the restroom. His eyebrows knit nervously as he gazed across the bar at the sign. His eyes darted to several groups of people who would have beaten him up in high school; or college; or now.

 

 

Christian glared at his beer and tried to rationalize with his sudden urge to fucking walk him to the bathroom like he was seven years old or something. He shouldn’t have noticed any of that body language Bart had just projected at him. Then again, what kind of kidnapper would he be if didn’t take inventory of how likely it was for his hostage to wriggle out a bathroom window? The guilt that Christian was meeting with a crooked insurance agent at any moment to fill out the deadly paperwork at Bart’s expense now swirled around in his gut, but he tried to remind himself Bart had no clue about that plan yet. He had no reason to try and ditch Christian.

 

 

“Get off me!” Christian shoved the artist to renew the distance between them in the booth. Bart was confused, Christian noticed. The guy hadn’t realized he’d been levitating towards him again. “Fuck. Fine. Come on. I gotta go too.”

 

 

He knew that Bart was the private kind of person to go into one of the battered stalls instead of going in the urinals along the wall. Christian slipped into the other stall and rummaged around his pockets for his fix. It took him a little too long to do this, and he heard Bart washing his hands. A surge of panic flittered across his chest when he heard the door open, but a young, overly-positive voice confirmed that someone had entered rather than the sound being that of Bart going back to the table without him.

 

 

“Oh...” Bart was doing the nervous-laughter thing. “Hello, officer.”

 

 

Christian froze as the young cop introduced himself and began to blather on about how he and his Chief were searching the town for a serial killer priest con man. The serial killer priest con man fumbled for his gun but didn’t ready it because it would have made a noise. He held his breath. _Jesus_. Bart could rat him out right now.

 

 

“Ah, yes, Smith!” Bart all but sang his words. Smith’s magical, dreamy innocence must have been making the artist comfortable. “I think I talked to your Chief at another place in town. He seems quite the brooding, but loveable type.”

 

 

“Oh, boy! He sure is!”

 

 

Smith continued on to say they were going to search some other bars and then hit up the casino a little later or maybe tomorrow just to make sure the priest wasn’t hanging around there. Christian laughed to himself. Everyone at the casino would either be loyal to Christian or too caught up in their own illicit activities to want to risk incriminating themselves.

 

 

The kid went on. “I have a lotta hope that we’re gonna find him before he hurts this latest hostage!”

 

 

“O-oh. Has he had many hostages, then?” Bart was worrying his hands. Christian couldn’t see him, but he knew he was worrying his hands now. _Fuck_.

 

 

“Yeah, he’s gone through quite the body count.” The kid hesitated. “B-but I just know that he’s having a change of heart. We haven’t found the body of the latest hostage yet, and all the others turned up long before this point!”

 

 

“O-oh. Oh, my.”

 

 

“Smith!” The door had barely made a noise before a lower voice with far more experience boomed at the kid. “Why did you come in here alone? I told you to stay close! What if he’d been in here, kid? You’d have been killed.”

 

 

Something about that voice made Christian shiver like someone had just walked over his grave. He had the feeling that this guy, someday, would be the one to put him down. The thought made him feel suddenly far too dependent on Bart as he pleaded with him inwardly not to give him up to the man.

 

 

Chief went on to ask Bart if he’d seen anything suspicious, and as far as Christian could tell, the artist lied like a pro. The priest closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the graffitied wall of the stall. For all he knew, Bart could be handing them a handwritten note or motioning desperately toward the stall. There were two cops in there now. Could he take them both? Could he react fast enough with this weird tremor that had come over him in proximity to that shitty Chief?

 

 

He could tell the guy had an attachment to that stupid kid. He’s the one he needed to land the gun on if he wanted them both to freeze up. Wait. Or did he need to make quick work of Chief because the kid wasn’t likely to be able to shoot him at all? An innocent hesitation like that could allow Christian to drop them both in a heartbeat. He blinked rapidly when he heard them leave without incident.

 

 

Christian was hyper aware of everything around him as he tried to decide if he should relax and accept this outcome. He figured he should wait about ten minutes and then have Bart make sure they had really left the bar altogether. “Bart?” He swallowed heavily when he realized he’d called him by his correct name.

 

 

Bart hummed happily in response. “That was close!”

 

 

“Come here.” Christian opened the stall, and when Bart came close enough, he yanked him inside and locked the stall. He shoved him against the wall and pressed the gun under his chin. He propped his other hand on the wall to hold himself more steady and loomed over Bart as the artist sank down helplessly. “Did you tip them off?”

 

 

“N-no! Of course not! I didn’t want anyone to die!” His lids fluttered closed. “I still don’t want anyone to die,” he said of himself.

 

 

Christian aimed the gun away and glared at the artist silently for the entire time he’d decided to wait. Bart knew that the serial killer was prone to long episodes of staring at him with a strangely hungry expression in silence, but that didn’t stop him from panicking about it every time it happened.

 

 

Bart wondered if Christian just kept getting stuck in some kind of drug-fueled daydream. Maybe he always looked at him because Bart was the only thing that kept moving in his field of view. Then again, maybe he was having conscious dark thoughts about the artist. Was Christian talking himself out of killing him, or talking himself into it?

 

 

“Y-your nose is bleeding.” Bart’s eyes darted from the stream of blood now dripping down Christian’s chin and back up to his eyes repeatedly as he searched him for clues on his mood. The priest didn’t budge.

 

 

Christian didn’t stop him when Bart fumbled at their side for some tissue paper. He didn’t stop him when he patted the paper against his face far too carefully. He didn’t call him on it when Bart’s eyes lingered on his lips several times, though Bart seemed to feel guilty about it each time when he quickly looked back to Christian’s eyes to see if he’d been caught. Christian gave him no indication he’d noticed.

 

 

By the time Christian finally spoke, Bart’s knees were wobbling, and he was nervously undulating against the wall under the serial killer’s piercing stare. Christian had been eerily still, barely even making a noise when he breathed, so Bart jolted when he growled, “Go check to make sure they left. Don’t go far enough from the door that I can’t hear you scream.”

 

 

He was being protective of him again. Christian told himself it was because he needed to keep up the psychological mind-fuck to make Bart stay agreeable and loyal. If he kept saving the artist, making him feel safe, it wouldn’t really matter that it was Christian’s fault for putting him in danger in the first place.

 

 

When he was sure the coast was clear, he directed Bart back to their table. “Don’t drink that.” No sooner than he’d rumbled the command, Bart’s hand pulled back from his glass of milk as if he’d been burned. “We walked away from the cups. They’re not safe. I ordered new ones.”

 

 

Their food came, and Christian ate in distraction as he texted back and forth with the insurance agent who was late. In the end, he wound up getting Steve to stop by the asshole’s office and gather everything he needed for his current scheme. Steve was familiar with the agent and this type of scam already anyway. He’d know more about what to do than Christian.

 

 

When a group of rowdy guys settled into a booth near them, Christian didn’t take much notice until Bart began to slowly move in his direction. Christian didn’t direct his face away from his phone as he looked up at the artist with a deadly, warning glare. “Stay off my dick.” He focused back to his phone when Bart blinked rapidly and began to stammer, but the priest’s attention was already tuning into the people Bart had seen as a threat.

 

 

Bart’s back straightened warily when Steve slid into the booth without any warning from Christian that they were expecting someone in the first place. His wide eyes landed on the manila folder that the newcomer tossed onto the table before he looked to Christian to try and figure out how he was supposed to react.

 

 

“Dotted lines, man. Just need your John Hancock.” Two pens clattered to the table next to the folder.

 

 

“Both of us?” Christian shoveled the last bite of his food in his mouth and pushed the plate away to make room for the paperwork.

 

 

“Yep.” He pointed to the page as Christian flipped it open. “You here, and him here. Pretty much the same place on every page.”

 

 

Christian signed a page and then passed it to Bart. The artist carefully moved his plate and placed the page on the table. He smoothed his hands over it and hesitantly reached for the pen. “W-what, um. What is this?” He was too busy to scan down the page just yet while he was still squinting to read the unfamiliar name Christian had signed. He yelped when Christian slammed his palm over the page.

 

 

“It’s no big deal. Just sign.” Christian’s focus skirted just over Bart’s shoulder for only a heartbeat when he noticed that one of the men at the other table was eyeing Bart.

 

 

Bart tilted his chin up because he couldn’t possibly straighten his back any further without starting to bend backwards. “I cannot simply sign something without knowing what it is, C-” He cleared his throat as he stopped himself from saying his name in case it would put their current company’s life in danger. He shrank down when Christian’s frown darkened dramatically. The priest leaned towards him, and Bart changed his tune. “I mean, okay. S-sure.” He couldn’t look away from the serial killer as his hand mechanically moved along the line in the familiar motions of signing his name.

 

 

“He doesn’t sound very sure about this.” Steve noted, but it wasn’t clear how he felt about the observation.

 

 

“He’s fine.” Christian returned to the pile of papers, and Bart took his distraction to try and scan his eyes down the page.

 

 

“Th-this, um. This is a living will.”

 

 

“Only that one,” Christian rumbled as he slammed another page on top of the first.

 

 

Bart gulped. “Is...is this one saying that you inherit everything I own if I d-die?” He quickly signed when Christian’s dangerous eyes met his again as if he was losing his patience.

 

 

“Oh, my. Oh. Oh, my.” Bart’s hand was trembling as he hovered over the line on the next page. It was saying that Christian, or whatever his real name was, would get a hefty sum of money in the event that something happened to Bart. The artist paled. He was about to sign his death warrant. “Oh, dear god.”

 

 

“Relax,” Christian murmured as he waited for him to sign so he could place the next page over it. “It doesn’t take effect unless we do another thing.”

 

 

“A-another thing?”

 

 

“Yeah. I’ll tell you when it comes to it.” Bart looked as if he was either going to faint or run away. “You’re alright. Bart.” He ran his sleeve across his abused nose. “Trust me.” He knew he sounded like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, yet he also knew people fell for his cons just the same.

 

 

“Yeah, he really doesn’t seem sure about this.” Steve’s tongue danced along his canine.

 

 

“Fuck you, Steve. Mind your own goddamn business.” 

 

 

Steve hummed as if he was unaffected by Christian’s tone. After that, however, he made no more comment about Bart’s clear distress.

 

 

The priest barely spared Steve another glance as he returned his attention to the quaking artist to see what had Steve so concerned. Christian’s sunken, bloodshot eyes softened when Bart looked up to him before signing the latest page. He was a lovely, pitiful sight. He had started to cry. The gentle sniffing noise caused a violent twist in Christian’s stomach.

_Fuck_. He had the urge to comfort him, and it might not be for the soul purpose of furthering the game at hand. Was this really necessary? Would he even be able to let Bart die if the opportunity arose for him to collect the payout?

 

 

_That’s ridiculous_. Of course, he’d be able to. He might even kill the guy himself and make it look like an accident. This was a lot of money, after all, and there was no shortage of chaos in Christian’s life to make the deed most convenient. All he had to do was keep him alive long enough to marry him. Aaand convince him to marry him. There was that part.

 

 

The guy in the other booth turned around again as Bart signed the final page and handed it back to Christian. The priest tossed the papers into the folder and offered it to Steve.

 

 

“Hey, sweetheart. He being good to you there? You need help?” The guy blanched when Christian’s murderous gaze immediately settled on him. Bart barely had a chance to look towards the voice before Christian clutched his arm in a bruising grip and yanked him along the booth to rest flush against his side.

 

 

“B-but you said not to touch y-”

 

 

“Forget what I said.” Christian leaned back and propped his arm on the seat behind the artist as he stared daggers in the now-fidgeting man across from them.

 

 

Bart made a high-pitched noise that was a combination of confusion and distress, and he reached for the old glass of milk in his distraction. Christian rubbed his face in his hands as he tried to gather himself while Bart chugged the drink.

 

 

Christian eventually turned back to Steve. “That it?”

 

 

“That’s a nice car you got out there, Christian.”

 

 

“Don’t fuck with me, Steve.” Christian tucked his hand in his shirt but didn’t withdraw his gun.

 

 

“C-Christian...” Bart wasn’t saying his name because he’d just gotten confirmation that Steve knew him. His voice was far too distant. “I don’t f-feel so good...”

 

 

When Christian ignored the artist, Steve followed his lead. “Alright. When you get to the casino, lay low for a bit until we make sure those cops you told me about have come and gone. I’ll get Gary to ring ya when it’s clear.” His eyes shifted to Bart when the artist wavered dangerously.

 

 

Bart didn’t seem to be hearing anything they were saying anymore. “Christian. Christian.” His fingers tugged at the priest’s sleeve. “I’m scared.”

 

 

Christian snarled. “It’s because you did what I told you not to. Didn’t you? Do you know what you did?”

 

 

“I’m s-sorry...” Bart wasn’t sure what he had done, exactly, even though he was staring at the empty milk glass. “Are...are you killing me? Am I dying? Christian? I’m scared...”

 

 

Steve arched a brow when Christian continued to look at Steve as if waiting for him to continue like his companion wasn’t about to pass out. Steve sighed. “And if this is not consensual, it should still be cool. Everyone will go with it. But.” He waved his finger. “But the officiant who’s overseeing things all this week might be a little too...morally...aware. I wouldn’t clue him in that he’s not willing. Is he okay?”

 

 

“Yeah.” Christian didn’t look away from Steve as he caught Bart’s head before it hit the table. He had been too late to catch him from drinking something that had likely been spiked with a date rape drug, but he had been powerless not to hang on Bart’s every reaction afterwards no matter how much he was trying not to care.

 

 

“Riiight. You are a kinky motherfucker.” Steve’s bottom lip jutted out sympathetically as Christian positioned the artist safely and comfortably around the dishes.

 

 

Christian scoffed. “I didn’t do this to him.”

 

 

Steve held up his hands. “Sure. Okay. It’s all good. I’ll help you get him to your car and call someone to meet you at the back door of the casino to help carry him up. You know there’s a complimentary honeymoon suit with the wedding package, especially for you, right?”

 

 

“Whatever.”

 

 

“Okay. To recap. Get him in the room. We’ll call you when the coast is clear. Don’t let the officiator catch on if this is one of your hostages. Everyone else has got your back. Have your way with the kid without interruption no matter how loud you get for the rest of the week in the finest lap of luxury. Sound good?”

 

 

_Fuck._ Fuck did that sound really good. Too good. He didn’t realize he was nodding and hooking his arms around Bart’s chest to drag him out of the booth until Steve was stuffing the folder under his arm and grabbing the artist’s legs.

 

 

Christian took some time to snort more drugs, and then he sat there clenching the steering wheel for several minutes before he allowed himself to look over at Bart reclined in the passenger seat. The artist was making all these helpless little mewls and mumbling Christian’s name. _Holy hell._ It was making him so hard it was painful. Goddamn his beautiful fucking mouth. Goddamn it straight to hell. He swallowed heavily as Bart’s lips quivered while he called Christian’s name again.

 

 

“I’m right here.” His voice was probably too breathless and unfamiliar to comfort the artist. Even if it wasn’t distorted beyond recognition, hearing his kidnapper might have the opposite effect and make Bart’s fevered dreams pitch further into nightmare territory. It took Christian too long to realize the radio was playing some creepy cover version of “Lil’ Red Riding Hood”.

 

 

“Fucks sake.” Christian groaned and scowled at the dials before clicking the radio to silence far too aggressively. The ear-ringing silence only managed to make Bart’s every vulnerable little noise echo around in Christian’s skull.

 

 

This wasn’t happening. Christian did not want his hostage with a maddening intensity that could so easily cloud his judgement. He was in complete control of his desires; desires for anarchy and blissfully mindless drug-fueled breaks from his search for addictively distracting adrenaline. He slammed his hands against the steering wheel until he was gasping for breath.

 

 

Then, against his better judgement, he looked back to his passenger.

 

 

His fingers slowly unfolded from the steering wheel.

 

 

He turned towards him.

 

 

Christian managed to stop his hand only after it was already hovering over the artist’s thigh. He couldn’t tear his hand away. He didn’t touch him, however, as he traced his palm along over his hip. Bart’s body writhed as if he could somehow feel the heat resonating off Christian’s hand as it traveled across him; so close. Close enough for Christian to feel static in the wake of his fingertips.

 

 

He lingered over his crotch, and the artist shuddered like he could feel a shadow of danger pouring over him. Christian moved up to his stomach, and then to his chest, accidentally grazing a wave in his shirt only once as his hand began to tremble. He finally allowed himself contact when he reached his neck, sliding his fingers around his throat and squeezing gently. Bart whimpered, and the priest’s eyes darted down his body when the artist thrust up twice. His attention shifted to Bart’s mouth when he weakly called out his name again.

 

 

Christian couldn’t get enough air. The car was somehow void of all oxygen.

 

 

He’d never raped anyone before. He wasn’t sure if he was above such a thing, or if he’d simply never cared to before. He pulled his thumb along Bart’s bottom lip, and it was even softer than he’d imagined while staring him down for countless hours. No one had ever touched Bart. Not even such a simple gesture as this. No one _would_ ever touch him like this. Christian would fucking kill them. Slowly.

 

 

Bart’s mouth opened wider with the touch along his lip, and his head tilted back. “C-Christian...s-scared...” Bart said that, but the artist’s hand moved to palm against his own crotch. Christian hissed in shock and didn’t stop himself in time from dipping his thumb past Bart’s lips. His tongue was warm and wet against the pad of his finger, and Christian groaned in frustration as the artist lisped around the intrusion. “Cwithan...”

 

 

“I’m here, baby.” Christian clenched his eyes shut and mastered himself against the unfamiliar loss of self-control until he was finally able to pull his hand away. He turned back to the wheel and dropped his chin to his chest as he counted between breaths. Even if he wanted to, it’s not like he could tear his clothes off and have his way with him right there in the car. No, he wanted more. He wanted everything. He at least had to get Bart to the room at the casino before he tried to decide just how much garbage he was really willing to stoop to being. That would at least buy Bart some time for now.

 

 

Christian refused to look over at Bart’s now wriggling body as he turned over the engine and scanned his eyes along the gauges and dials. He tried to focus on the throbbing pain along his wrists from where he’d assaulted the steering wheel. He pulled away from the bar with a noisy, frustrated sigh.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was five hours later before Bart awoke in a giant, heart-shaped bed with a mirror on the ceiling. He bolted upright, clutching the silky soft sheets and cozy comforter to his chest. The wafting motion of the fabric sent an absurd amount of fake silk rose petals fluttering down around him.

 

 

Christian was there at the foot of the bed sitting in a cushy chair with his combat boots propped on the end of the bed. Watching him. Always watching him. The dim, romantic lighting cast an eerie glow across the serial killer as he tipped a beer to his lips.

 

 

“Y-you tried to kill me! Or-” _Or worse!_ Bart peeked under the covers to find that he was still fully clothed other than his shoes. He didn’t notice any odd pains that indicated he’d been robbed of an organ or enjoyed without his consent.

 

 

“I didn’t try to kill you. If I had, you’d be dead.” Christian truly thought it should be a comforting thing to hear. “You drank that fucking milk after I told you not to. Somebody dropped a roofie in it, apparently. Probably that fucker that kept checking on you to see if he could lure you into walking off with him like he wanted to talk about your problems or some shit.”

 

 

“R-roofie?”

 

 

“Date rape drug. Knocks you out. Makes you vulnerable and sometimes kind of horny. Hell of a drug.”

 

 

Bart whined and pulled the covers over his shoulders as if it would provide a barrier against the con artist. “Did...did you?” When Christian only arched a brow in question, he was forced to elaborate. “Did you v-violate m-me?”

 

 

Christian took a moment to respond, taking another swig from his beer before he answered firmly; darkly. “No.” There was something in his voice that made Bart even more on edge than usual.

 

 

“Easy,” Christian hummed when Bart tried to stand. “It may take another couple of hours to get out of your system enough to have your mind straight.”

 

 

“You! You made me sign some kind of death warrant, Christian! You mean to kill me!” He was crying already, and Christian stopped himself from going to him when he failed to stand properly with his head spinning. When his hands groped helplessly at the bed, the priest sighed and stood to help him. It only managed to frighten the artist more. “Stay away!”

 

 

Christian ignored him and pulled him to his feet. “Where are you trying to go?”

 

 

Bart tried again to walk, but when he collapsed against Christian’s body for support, he dropped his face on the priest’s chest and whispered. “The...the restroom.” Christian immediately moved in that direction.

 

 

When they reached the toilette, Christian didn’t seem to have any shame. “Which way you going on here? You gotta piss, or throw up...”

 

 

Bart pointed forward, and Christian hooked his arms around Bart’s chest to keep him from teetering while he aimed. “Don’t watch me.” Bart huffed when he realized he could hardly focus to open his pants. He’d be better off sitting down to accomplish the task at hand. “I...I don’t know if I can do this standing.” He gasped when Christian’s hands snaked down to his pants, pushed them open, and pressed them down his legs. He covered himself as the priest turned him around and supported him while lowering him to the seat.

 

 

“Tell me when you’re done.” Christian rumbled as he politely turned his back to him and went to wait in the doorway.

 

 

“C-Christian?”

 

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

 

“Where are we?”

 

 

“At the casino.”

 

 

“Why are we in...this...kind of room?”

 

 

“It’s the honeymoon suit.”

 

 

“Yes. I can...can see that. But why are _we_ in the honeymoon suit?”

 

 

“It comes complimentary with the wedding package.” He sniffed loudly, and Bart knew that he was taking more drugs.

 

 

“Um. W-who’s wedding, exactly?”

 

 

“Ours, sweetheart.” The term of endearment sounded unnatural and almost mocking. Bart whined again as Christian wove his tale. “Don’t you remember asking me?” Bart hummed in denial. “Well. Your inhibitions were gone. I dutifully stopped you from trying to suck my cock while you weren’t in your right mind.” Bart choked. “You were pretty grateful. Said some heartfelt fucking shit that I’m just a motherfucking sucker for, baby. I said yes, of course. You seemed pretty happy about it to me.” Christian lied flawlessly.

 

 

“Oh. Oh, my.” There was the sound of rustling fabric and a flush, but Bart didn’t call to him for help. Christian went to him anyway. “Um. C-Christian?” Bart was pretty sure Christian was completely full of shit, and he was trying to make Bart more agreeable about his own dastardly scheme; whatever that was. “Marriage...is a...pretty serious thing.”

 

 

“Right. It is.” The con artist grumbled.

 

 

“Well. Um. Oh, boy. Christian. So, you are gay, then?” Bart had been a little suspicious that Christian was asexual or something of that nature. He knew the man became aroused often, and that he relieved himself sometimes at an alarming rate of repetition. Unless he’d only been proclaiming the numbers to Bart sometimes after coming out of the restroom just to shock his hostage.

 

 

It seemed, though, that the serial killer simply had other things on his mind besides sex. Otherwise, if he had any interest in men, why hadn’t he already taken out his frustrations on Bart? If he was into women, why wasn’t it all over the news that the dead hostages turning up were defiled women? Why weren’t the men they found sexually abused for that matter?

 

 

“Sure. Why not.”

 

 

“Um. Ooookay. Do you...do you l-love me?”

 

 

Christian almost dropped him as he tripped in response to the question. He cleared his throat when his hum of confirmation didn’t come out clearly the first two times. “Mmhmm.”

 

 

Bart was crying again. “I think I can make it now. On my own. Thank you.” His arms waved out in front of him as the world spun in front of his eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed and found his hat and glasses were on the side table. He didn’t feel like putting them on. He clutched at a catch in his side. “So, you didn’t do anything...unsavory...to me while I was vulnerable?”

 

 

“I said no. Fucks sake.” Christian cursed when he realized his nose was bleeding again. He’d rather have this conversation from the other room without looking at Bart anyway. He returned to the bathroom and ran a washcloth under the faucet.

 

 

“Is marriage the other thing you were talking about? The thing that would make that paperwork relevant?”

 

 

“Yes.” Christian pinched his forehead to try and stop the thrumming headache that was coming with the struggle of keeping his voice calm and his jaw unclenched. It was more difficult than he’d imagined.

 

 

“Marriage is a lifelong commitment, you know? We would be married f-for life. Are we, um, are we on the same page, here?”

 

 

“Yes. Fuck.” Christian growled. “I promise you’ll be married for the rest of your life.” He could have phrased that a lot better. He was trying to decide how to correct it and wondering why he should even care to correct it, when he heard a distant, gentle click that sounded suspiciously like a hotel door closing. “Bart? Sweeeeetheart?” The endearment was clearly a threat now.

 

 

Christian stumbled into the bedroom to find it empty. “Shit!” His heart dropped into his feet, but he didn’t have time to decide if it was from the threat of Bart pointing a finger in his direction to the authorities, or from the prospect of losing the artist at all. He cursed himself as he realized he’d dropped his guard just like he had feared would happen when he’d realized he was starting to get messed up feelings of attachment in the first place.

 

 

The door slammed loud as he fell out into the hallway and spun around in search of his hostage. Bart was in the elevator all the way at the end of the hallway. Christian could see the whites of his eyes all the way from where he stood as Bart struggled to hold himself upright while beating his fist against the button to close the door. Bart’s attention shifted rapidly from the buttons to the hallway as Christian pushed off in pursuit of him with the frightening aura that he did this kind of thing all the time.

 

 

“Don’t you close that door, Bart! Bart! Don’t you fucking do it!” The heat of his glare and the unusual depth of his frown was enough to make Bart plaster himself back against the wall and scream for all he was worth before the doors clicked closed just in time with a rather anticlimactic little ding.

 

 

Christian kicked the door as he tried to forget the sound of Bart’s terrified scream. It was fucking beautiful. It was the most perfect scream he’d ever heard in his life. He wanted to hear it again, and again.

 

 

Bart’s panting was loud in the enclosed space as the movement caused him to have to brace himself against the railing to keep from falling over. “Oh, my f-fuck!” He clutched his chest but scrambled for the railing again when the elevator stopped at the ground floor.

 

 

Bart fell against the doors and tried to pry them apart as they took their time freeing him. He crammed himself through the center as soon as the doors opened enough for him to fit through. The hallway appeared endless as he gazed hopefully at the glass doors on the far side that opened to the main room of the casino.

 

 

The world tilted, and Bart fell against a door before righting himself again. The pattern of the carpet danced unnaturally as he swayed in the other direction. There were people passing by the glass ahead! Lots of people! He pushed off the opposite wall when he over-corrected his balance, but he continued to move steadily forward. He could hear very loud music, and see so many people, just on the other side of that glass! He wanted to live. He was going to live!

 

 

It felt like only one of his legs wanted to work properly as he dragged himself along. He could already hear the lyrics to Guns’N’Roses “November Rain” vibrating down the hallway as if to taunt him.

 

 

_Nothin’ lasts forever, and we both know hearts can change._

 

 

The artist gnashed his teeth as he forced his numb, fatigued limbs to keep moving.

 

 

          _But love is always coming and love is always going_ _and no one's really sure who's lettin' go today! Walking away!_

 

          Bart stretched his hand toward the glass as that young cop from the bar walked into sight. He had a large smile and eyes filled with fascination as he looked around at the busy blinking lights and beautiful dancing women. He was several yards away from the door as he turned his back to the glass and wiggled his finger in his ear as he thought to himself that the music was a little too loud in there.

 

          _Do you need some time on your own? Do you need some time all alone?_

 

          Bart’s lips moved as he tried to make his dry throat cry for help. He was almost there! He only needed to pass the length of one more doorway!

 

          Oh, god, that doorway was a stairwell.

 

 

          And it was flying open violently.

 

 

          And fuck! _Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_ Christian was stumbling out of that stairwell with heaving shoulders and that pain-promising scowl in place! How did he do it? How did he race down all those stairs so quickly?

_Oh, right. He’s on cocaine_. Or maybe it was that Bart wasn’t moving nearly as fast as he thought he’d been.

 

          Bart screamed as Christian caught him around the waist. His momentum allowed him to bring Christian with him as he slammed up against the glass face-first and called out to Smith. “HEEEELP! SMITH! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! HELP ME!” He pounded on the door twice before Christian’s hands roughly pinned his wrists against the glass.

 

          Smith bounced on his heels as he scanned the crowd for Chief. He sang along with the music and wondered if Chief liked this song. It had a brooding kind of feel, he supposed. “ _Don’t you need some time all alone? I know it’s hard to keep an open heart...when even friends seem out to harm you..._ ”

 

          He laughed. That was silly. Friends don’t harm each other. He felt a sudden twinge that someone was watching him; or maybe trying to get his attention. He turned around. “Chief?”

 

          There was nothing but an empty hallway.

 

          Bart struggled against him as Christian gripped his wrists and backed him into the stairwell. “No! Christian! Please! I don’t want to die!” His back hit the wall. “I do love you, but I don’t want to die!”

 

          “I don’t know.” Christian leaned down and hoisted the artist over his shoulder. “Kind of acting like you want to die.” He commanded himself to ignore the proclamation that Bart loved him. A crafty hostage would pick up on the hint that he wanted him to say it. He froze as he realized he had indeed wanted to hear him say it.

 

          “Please don’t kill me, Christian!” He braced his hands against the priest’s lower back to try and relieve some of the pressure on his abdomen as he was jostled up the stairwell. “I mean, you can’t kill me until after the wedding, right?” He laughed nervously. “I’m useful that way...with the insurance?”

 

          “Sure.”

 

          When they reached the second floor, Christian sat him on his feet and pressed him back against the wall as he worked to catch his breath. The dark circles around his eyes worked wonders in adding intensity to his stare of displeasure. Bart’s heels dug against the floor as his instincts told him to move back away from those dark eyes and lip-curling snarl even though the wall was preventing him from putting any distance between them.

 

          The priest’s shoulders were tight. His jaw was locked. His fists were clenched until he lifted a single finger to point at Bart threateningly. Everything about him screamed that he wanted to hurt something.

 

          Bart’s head hit the wall when the priest jabbed his finger close enough to make him go cross-eyed. He didn’t have his gun! Oh, thank god! He didn’t have his gun on him! “Y-you shouldn’t hit me, C-Christian.”

 

          “And why’s that?” His hand fell to pinch the artist’s face and force him to keep looking at him when he tried to turn his head away.

 

          “Please don’t hit me...”

 

          “That’s not a reason.”

 

          Bart sucked in a deep breath as he tried to think through the haze of the drug. “Because, Christian! You need to take me into public. Don’t you? For us to marry? R-right? What would p-people think if I was bruised? I refuse to be a battered spouse! I won’t do it! I w-won’t go along with it if you hit me!”

 

          He shuddered when Christian’s eyes locked onto his mouth while he spoke. His eyebrows shot up high when Christian’s thumb gently grazed along his bottom lip, catching it in the center and pressing his mouth open a tiny bit before continuing the caress across his lip.

 

          He froze completely when Christian pressed his thumb into his mouth. He tasted like the hotel hand soap he hadn’t had enough time to wash away when he’d realized the artist had fled. Bart’s mouth fell open because he meant to be offended. He meant to protest, but he said nothing as the priest groaned out the most hypnotic sound and stroked along his tongue.

 

          The priest confirmed to himself that this was so much better with the other man awake to respond to it; flustered and appalled. Bart’s face reddened dramatically, and he looked to the side in humiliation until Christian finally stopped.

 

 

Bart’s voice was small then. “L-look. I’m not completely stupid. I know what you’re really doing. I’ll go along with it. J-just don’t play these cruel games with me. Please.”

 

 

“You’re hurting my feelings. Bart.”

 

 

He emphasized his name like a curse, and the artist wondered if he would rather that or have Christian forgetting his name. He decided he’d rather have someone know him well enough to dislike him than be unknown all together.

 

 

“Now, come on.” Christian clamped his hand onto Bart’s wrist and dragged him into the hallway where they could reach the elevator. They would go up to their floor, and then go to their room where Christian had his gun and his privacy. Chief’s words ghosted through his foggy brain. Bart would be lucky if Christian gave him a quick death. _There’s no telling how fucked up the guy is._

 

 

Bart was crying and tugging fruitlessly against Christian’s hold. The priest glanced over his shoulder and tried not to think about how much he wanted to comfort him. He was better off to keep him afraid. Besides, would he even believe him if he did promise his safety?

 

 

Bart’s eyes lit up with hope when a door opened, and a man came out to push along a laundry cart. “H-h-help me!” The artist pushed against Christian’s arm and stumbled.

 

 

“You all right, there, Christian? Need any help?” The man’s eyes didn’t even meet Bart’s as he released the cart when Christian reached for it.

 

 

The serial killer raked Bart’s legs out from under him and dropped him into the cart. On the elevator, Bart stared back at him with a trembling jaw as Christian rested his weight on his hands against the cart and leaned over him.

 

 

“Christian?” The priest only continued to scowl at him in acknowledgement. “W-why don’t we go right now...and...”

 

 

“You know the cops are down there. I’m covered in blood from my fucking nosebleed. You need to eat, sleep, and shower first.”

 

 

“Christian?”

 

 

“Bart.” He spat the name again, but the con artist’s heart softened further when Bart continued to say his name while seeking some form of rescue. He didn’t show his pleasure with this on the outside. He couldn’t afford to.

 

 

“Are you going to...” He searched for the right words. “Rough me up?”

 

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

 

“W-why on Earth would I want you to?”

 

 

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself the whole time you’ve had me chasing you down.” Christian swore when Bart covered his face and started sniffling harder. “Fuck, Bart. No. No, I’m not going to hit you. When have I ever hit you?”

 

 

The artist looked up to him with hope, and Christian’s eyes finally lost a small measure of hate. He continued to watch the artist when the elevator opened to their floor. His eyes didn’t leave him as he rolled the cart along the hallway, nor when a woman passed them jingling her car keys and shifting around in her purse.

 

 

“Hey, Christian!” She called, ignoring his hostage as if everything was normal in the world.

 

 

Christian enjoyed the tremor that traveled down Bart’s body as it sank in to him how completely fucked he was in this strange dimension where everyone was on the serial killer’s side. He couldn’t stop himself from comforting him, however, even though he knew his razor blade tone wouldn’t be convincing. “You’re alright. Trust me.”

 

 

They saw two more people before they reached their room. Each seemed to think nothing of Bart’s arms and legs dangling over the sides of the laundry cart as he sat there trapped in Christian’s undivided glare. He took the cart into their room, and then helped him to get out. He guided him to the bed, and then he handed him a room service menu.

 

 

When Bart couldn’t decide on what he wanted, the priest ordered for him. As soon as Christian hung up the phone, it rang. “What? Uh-huh. They’re gone? You’re sure? Right. No. We won’t be doing it today. I don’t know. Tomorrow morning, probably. Maybe the next day.” He hung up without saying goodbye.

 

 

The more time passed that Christian didn’t strike him or wave the gun in his face, the more Bart was able to relax. Or, at least, relax as much as he could while a crazy man watched him eat with avid interest in his mouth.

 

 

“You look really tired.” Bart was actually getting pretty concerned about how pale and tormented the con artist appeared. The fact that he was neglecting to wash the dried blood off himself probably didn’t help to soothe Bart’s concerns.

 

 

“Yeah.” Christian muttered. “Because someone didn’t listen to me and chugged a sedative. You might have stopped breathing or slipped into a coma. You’re fine now,” he added when Bart’s eyes widened. “But me sleeping is going to happen, and since you’ve decided to make me have to chase you down, we’re gonna sleep like we did on the couch so I can feel every time you move. So help me, Christ, Bart. If you try to take off on me again, I will dislocate each of your fingers and put them right back again to avoid-” He sighed when Bart’s fork tumbled from his fingers in fright. “Just don’t piss me off.”

 

 

Bart’s voice reached a higher pitch than Christian had heard from him before. “Okay.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Christian didn’t have the heart to terrorize the artist by laying on him in a bed built for kinky sex after everything else the kid had been through in the last short while. Instead he simply spooned him after another wave of the drugs caught up with him and Bart began having trouble holding his eyes open.

 

 

The con artist sucked in a breath when Bart unconsciously snuggled back against him in search of safety for the twelve time; not that he was counting. Bart murmured in his sleep, and Christian caught himself squeezing him in reassurance.

 

 

  _Fuck._ This guy was going to get him killed, or maybe even kill Christian with his own hands. He cursed himself when he drifted off again only to snap back awake and realize nothing had changed. He glanced over his shoulder to the gun on the nightstand on his side of the bed and sighed in relief that Bart hadn’t squirmed away and retrieved it.

 

 

He considered taking another hit to wake up, but it had been too long since he’d slept. If he wanted to pull this off, (whatever _this_ even was anymore), he was going to have to be alert. It would all be for nothing, though, if he lost his hostage all together. He wasn’t sure when he lost the battle with his heavy lids, but he was grateful that some of his nightmares were being replaced with fevered dreams of the man in his arms.

 

 

Bart awoke to a gentle, excited whisper. “Hey, kiddo!”

 

 

He opened his eyes, and relief flooded over him when he saw the proud, loving eyes of that strange otherworldly being who had shown up not long ago to have a talk with Bart about confidence. This omnipotent self-proclaimed father to everyone offered his hand to the artist, and Bart immediately clutched the lifeline. He directed Bart to sit up, but the artist’s eyes widened dramatically when Christian groaned in his sleep as his hand untangled from Bart’s waist.

 

 

“It’s alright, sport.” Dad assured him. “He’s out cold for a few minutes. So, it looks like you might be in over your head a little here, champ. Someone drugged you, too. That must have been pretty scary! You know, kiddo, you should never turn away from your drink in an unfamiliar setting. It’s best to toss it if you can’t remember if your eyes left it even for a second.”

 

 

The guy looked to the side pointedly and grinned as if he’d just spoken into a camera, or as if his advice had been directed at every human being in this current existence. Bart whimpered. Why did everyone around him have to be insane?

 

 

“I don’t know...um...Dad.” Bart wiped his sweaty palms against his pants as he looked back to Christian. Then his eyes darted to the gun on the other side of the bed. When he looked back to Dad, he was studying Bart without the slightest hint of negative judgement. It wasn’t nearly as unnerving as the way Christian watched him, but it was still a little creepy.

 

 

“You going to make a run for it? You’ve got a little bit of time. I can stay here with him to help talk him through his heartbreak after you’re gone.”

 

 

“Um, h-heartbreak?” Bart blinked rapidly and worried his hands.

 

 

Dad nodded as he hummed in confirmation. When Bart continued to look around him as if he needed instruction, he placed a hand on his shoulder. “Take a breath, kiddo. There’s something I want to show you that might help you out.” He nodded to Christian’s pants that were tossed over the back of a chair. “Get his wallet.”

 

 

Bart’s face whipped back to the priest. He wasn’t wearing pants. He’d been lying there holding him without pants on. “Oh, wow. Okay. Oh, my. I don’t know if I sh-should touch his belongings.”

 

 

“It’s okay, sport! I wouldn’t let anything hurt you while I’m around. Go ahead!”

 

 

“Well. If you’re sure.” Bart nervously fished out the wallet and flipped it open. It was almost overflowing with cash.

 

 

“Making quite the killing on your art, son! I’m so proud of you!” Dad’s fists rested on his sides as he grinned. “But you’re looking for the other thing. The folded paper in there. See it?”

 

 

Bart filed through the money until he found the contrasting white page. He unfolded it, and his heart jumped when he recognized it was a rough sketch that he had done of Christian when he had been away on one of his adventures and had left Bart alone. He’d thought he’d tucked it away in the back of one of his sketchbooks, but he wasn’t surprised that Christian had shoveled through his most private and personal areas in search of things to con people with. He tilted the page to read the sloppy, almost psychotic writing now scrawled across it. _Fuck you. Not for sale you fucking fuck._

 

 

Bart gasped, and he folded the page to return it to the wallet as he fretted that getting caught viewing such a private and clearly off-limits item in Christian’s possession would surely get him killed. He choked when Dad spoke to him again. He’d almost forgotten he was there as he had so patiently allowed him to think on what he was seeing.

 

 

“You staying, then, kiddo?”

 

 

“Oh. Um. Y-yes.” Bart looked up when Dad replied that he was proud of him for his wonderful choice, but the creature was nowhere to be seen. Bart’s shoulders dropped as Christian grunted. He really wished Dad would have waited for him to carefully climb back into place on the bed before he’d taken off.

 

 

Christian awoke to the feel of the covers being lifted. Bart’s eyes were closed as he carefully slid his legs onto the mattress and lowered himself down onto the pillow. It was clear to the priest that Bart was moving towards him instead of away, but he still couldn’t stop the reflex to whip his arm out and grab onto him. Bart’s eyes flew open to find Christian glaring at him with a wide-eyed frown.

 

 

The artist swallowed heavily as the serial killer’s fingers roughly mapped along his captured hand in an all-too aware search for his joints. Bart searched his face as he tried desperately to convince himself that Christian wasn’t really going to hurt him. He didn’t try to pull his hand away as he sank down, scooted flush against the priest, and buried his face in his chest.

 

 

Christian didn’t understand. Bart had been awake, and he’d been out of the bed. Why had he come back? He stiffened as the artist scooted closer to him. He looked over his shoulder to find that the gun was still there. As he turned back, he mouthed _what the fuck_ over Bart’s head.

 

 

He rolled his thumb against one of Bart’s knuckles as he considered his threat to dislocate his fingers, but ultimately, he released him. He frowned harder in confusion when Bart draped his arm around his waist once he was free. The priest’s eyes darted around the room frantically as he tried to piece the situation together.

 

 

_He’s stalling me._ Christian gulped. _He called the cops._ If that was so, then why hadn’t he at least hidden the gun? His eyes landed on the laundry cart that was still blocking the door. Anyone with common sense waiting for the heat to bust through the door and save them would have moved that.

 

 

He couldn’t figure this out fast enough. Probably because he didn’t really want to know. He was going to spend his last moments on this earth in denial. His grip was far too tight as he cradled Bart against him and inhaled against the top of his head. He closed his eyes as the body against him shuddered.

 

 

When he next opened his eyes, the sun had set, and the room was again lit only by the dim romantic bulbs. Christian was alive, and he was still a free man.

 

 

He untangled from the artist and rolled onto his back. He could still see Bart in the mirror overhead. His hand was unconsciously stretching out in search of Christian’s warmth that had left him. Christian watched him pull his hand back to his chest insecurely when he awoke, and then the priest narrowed his eyes as Bart stared at his profile for a long time while he thought Christian wasn’t looking at him.

 

 

The priest dropped his face to the side to look at him with a disbelieving curl of his upper lip. _The fuck is wrong with this guy?_ Christian knew he was good at rattling his hostages, but he wasn’t this good.

 

 

Bart looked away before he rolled to his back. Then his eyes widened dramatically as he was reminded there was a mirror above them. He froze as he watched the reflection of the serial killer continue to stare at him unapologetically.

 

 

“I...I should take a shower. I have not bathed in a week, at least.”

 

 

Christian didn’t stop him when he sat up, nor when he stood, nor when he went into the giant bathroom and closed the door.

 

 

Bart collected a few of the complimentary bottles of hygiene products and noisily tore the paper away from the bar of soap. He turned on the shower, placed a towel near the large glassed-in shower stall, and glanced nervously at the door before he began to peel away his clothes. He was fully disrobed before Christian aggressively kicked the door open.

 

 

Bart clawed for a towel to cover himself as Christian gnashed his teeth and glared across the room in the direction of the cheesy, heart-shaped hot tub. “There’s a window in here.” He muttered to himself in a tone that suggested the artist had tried to pull a fast one on him. The window was too high up for Bart to get out of because he didn’t have the upper body strength to pull himself up to it from the ledge, but it was large enough for him to fit through if he’d found a way to do so.

 

 

“O-okay. I’ll j-just-” Bart squeaked when his voice drew Christian’s eyes to him.

 

 

“Get in,” he commanded before turning to go back into the bedroom. His voice traveled over the sound of the shower even from the other room as he sensed Bart disobeying him. “Now. Bart.”

 

 

The artist hastily hung the towel on the towel bar along the center of the sliding glass doors. His hope bristled when he realized he could put another towel there and create a waist-down barrier to shield at least his lower half from the serial killer’s eyes if he came back in. He had barely finished stuffing the towel in place and scurrying into the stall to hide himself when he heard Christian grunting in annoyance as he dragged a chair into the bathroom.

 

 

“You do not have to do that, Christian!” Bart was completely appalled. “You can just leave the door open and watch the window from in there!” He desperately scrubbed the tiny soap across his skin in a rush to get the awkward and frightening situation over with.

 

 

He couldn’t help but flash back to the exchange he’d had with Christian at the abandoned house when he had told Bart to take his clothes off before assuring him he’d been joking. That exchange had ended with Bart helplessly trying to threaten he’d throw up or piss himself if Christian tried to violate him but had expectedly backfired when Christian had called his bluff and simply stated he’d be sure to assault him in the shower if he chose to do so.

 

 

He turned his back to the room and the warped glass as Christian’s wavy silhouette sank down into the chair he had so shamelessly positioned to face the shower. At least he was all the way across the room to give Bart a little space. It wasn’t long before Bart heard the telltale sounds of snorting and sneezing that came along with Christian getting his morning wake-up dose of cocaine.

 

 

“This really isn’t necessary, Christian!” He wet his hair and slopped shampoo onto his head so that he could put his face under the water during the short window while the priest’s attention was temporarily divided. He really didn’t want to take his peripheral off the man while he was so thoroughly vulnerable.

 

 

Christian’s voice was gravel as he rumbled through his abused throat. “You’re the one insisting on throwing off your clothes right after trying to take off on me.”

 

 

“At least one us cares to wash themselves at all!” Bart shivered when he heard the serial killer ready his gun in retaliation.

 

 

“Clean up would be so much more convenient with your body bleeding out in there.” God, why did it make him so hard when the artist mouthed off at him?

 

 

Bart hugged himself as the threat hung heavy in the air. Shampoo was dripping into his eyes and burning, but he continued to hesitate. In the end, he had to accept that there was nothing he could do about whatever the priest had in mind anyway, so he tilted his head back into the spray of water.

 

 

He heard the door sliding open and he violently rubbed at the water rushing down his face. The shampoo was still in his eyes, so he could only see the priest’s flesh-colored silhouette standing in front of him as he dipped his head back again to try and make the burning stop. He was far too aware of his exposed throat as he tried again three times to rid the soap from his eyes. He failed each time when he lifted his face from the spray too soon in his panic to try and get his eyes on the serial killer, and he was forced to return to the water feeling more endangered with every desperate heartbeat.

 

 

“Christian!” His name was garbled as water poured into his mouth. “Christian! CHRISTIAN!”

 

 

“What.”

 

 

“OH GOD! PLEASE DON’T DEFILE ME YOU HEARTLESS SAVAGE!”

 

 

Those fucking melodramatics. It was making the priest consider molesting him when he’d formally told himself he really was just going to quickly rinse all the blood and drugs away. Christian exhaled long and loud as he wondered how long it would take for Bart to fall and hurt himself at this rate of blindly thrashing. “Settle down, Bart. You’re right. I need a fucking shower.”

 

 

“I C-CAN GET OUT!” Bart was finally able to see, and he reached for the door.

 

 

Christian’s hand slammed against the glass to hold it closed. “What, and make me have to chase you across the casino while I’m fucking naked when you try to ditch me? Just stay put. It’ll only take a second.”

 

 

“Please don’t rape me.”

 

 

Christian was pretty sure he wasn’t aware he’d said it out loud that time. The priest didn’t try to be discrete when he looked down between the artist’s legs. “I don’t think you’d really be all that opposed to the idea.”

 

 

Bart was too shocked at first to cover himself, but eventually his hands clamped over his erection. “I c-can’t help that! It’s a natural submissive response when human bodies...when some people are...are...” He whined. “When you give me that look, Christian!”

 

 

Christian snarled. “What look?”

 

 

“W-when you terrorize me with _that_ look!” Bart’s eyes dropped to his feet before he realized he didn’t want to look down and tilted his face to look at the ceiling instead. His lids clenched when he found his throat again bared to the serial killer.

 

 

“So, you get a hardon every time I crowd you, then?”

 

 

“Crowd me?” Is that what he thought he was doing? Simply crowding him a little bit?

 

 

Christian still hadn’t moved to step into the water or get any closer to the artist at all. Bart had no idea that he was trying to compassionately give him a moment to gather himself before he inevitably started to move near him while they were naked. Christian told himself he simply wasn’t in a hurry, and that his inaction was not an attempt to make Bart more comfortable.

 

 

Instead of calming him, however, Bart was doubting that Christian’s real motive was to clean himself even as his intimidating eyes stayed mostly on Bart’s face. The only sound for a little while, then, was the water. Bart’s voice vibrated around the stall when he instinctively pleaded with Christian again. “Christian...”

 

 

“What. Bart.”

 

 

“Please don’t rape me.” Bart repeated.

 

 

“I said I’m going to fucking shower, Bart. As soon as I’m sure you’re not going to fucking pass out on me when we trade places. If I was going to rape you, I’d already be doing it by now. Don’t you think?”

 

 

Bart swallowed heavily as his eyes darted down to Christian’s large, healthy cock. “Then w-why are you...you...like that.”

 

 

“It’s just the cocaine.” Christian lied, and Bart’s shoulders began to relax. “That’s all. Calm down and trust me.”

 

 

“Well.” That could explain a lot. If the drugs caused the con man his frequent discomfort, maybe Bart had misread many of his intentions. Bart straightened his back, and it was hard not to smirk at his attempt to regain a bit of composure while still covering his dick and his ribs as if his chest was some dirty secret. “Well, then. Perhaps you should market your product for people who need assistance with...enlargement?”

 

 

Christian’s snarl did twitch into more of a smirk, then. His eyes softened. “It doesn’t make it bigger, sweetheart. It just makes the blood pump through there.”

 

 

“Oh.” Bart blushed furiously as it sank in that he’d just unintentionally complimented the size of the man’s cock. “Oh, my.”

 

 

“But thanks, I guess?” _Fuuuck._ It was so hard not to shove him onto his knees and cram his dick past those pretty, insecure lips. “Hand me the soap.”

 

 

Bart held out his hand and immediately proceeded to drop the soap. He froze with impossibly wide eyes and a trembling jaw as they both clearly heard the bar slide around and come to a stop behind the artist.

 

 

“Really, Bart?” Christian arched a brow as he tried not to envision Bart simply turning around, bending over, and picking up the soap. “Stop panicking.” Why did he feel so patient with all of this? “Just kick it over here.”

 

 

“O-over there?” He was so dramatic about everything, and Christian loved it with every fiber of his black heart. “Right. Okay.”

 

 

Christian wondered. Why did the guy fight this so much? He supposed he hadn’t really thought to question whether or not his fiancé was into men. It hadn’t mattered to the con man if another person wanted what he wanted, as long as he accomplished his goal at any cost. Christian didn’t get the impression that Bart had been abused in his past, so his fear was far more likely to be from simple lack of experience. The fear was so intense, though. No wonder he’d never managed to land anyone in his bed.

 

 

Was it disgust? Maybe Bart didn’t trust other people to be clean. He _had_ just thrown some lip at Christian for being so dirty, though the priest couldn’t argue with the truth there. Was Bart repulsed by him personally?

 

 

Christian’s fists clenched as he realized it mattered to him if Bart wanted to be touched by him. Was that feeling why Christian had yet to force the artist into his bed? Other than just to actually sleep, that is. Did he really care about his hostage’s fragile feelings?

 

 

Christian was going to go ahead and admit one thing. _He_ wanted Bart. Badly. It was a desire bordering dangerously on need, and he wanted so much more from Bart than just his compliance. He wanted the artist to give him everything. He wanted him to want him. He wanted to be in his head, and in his heart, and in his body.

 

 

Bart closed his eyes when the soap clunked against the opposite side of the tub before sliding into place between them. He knew he was going to have to either bend over or stoop down to pick it up, and either was going to bring him to eye-level with Christian’s crotch.

 

 

“Easy.” Christian suspected that if he ordered Bart to do anything that brought his face or hands closer to his cock the guy was going to faint. “Just be still.”

 

 

Bart opened his eyes in question and gulped as Christian slowly sank in height in front of him. The artist’s face tilted down to follow him as Christian maintained eye contact like he was still in complete control even as he stooped at Bart’s feet. Christian wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to psychoanalyze his hostage’s response to this, and he wasn’t disappointed.

 

 

Bart’s lips parted as Christian lingered below him. The artist mouthed something to the effect of ‘oh’, and possibly, ‘shit’. Christian could see clear desire there, now. Bart’s legs trembled as the priest looked up at him while squinting slightly against the water that managed to sprinkle against his face as it cascaded down the artist’s body.

 

 

Christian was much, much closer when he began to raise back to his feet. He took his time hovering his mouth just shy of the artist’s skin. Bart’s muscles twitched here and there as if he had been touched, but when Christian tilted his head and leaned in to exhale along his collarbone, a wanton little moan gurgled up the artist’s throat. When Christian was back to his full height again, he gave him a serene extended blink to reassure him he wasn’t losing control.

 

 

Christian’s pupils had dilated behind now heavy-lidded eyes as if he had just taken a hit of the most potent drug he’d ever gotten a hold of. He thought to himself, as he watched the artist become lost in his eyes, that this moment of confirmation that he was wanted was worth remembering. It was worth suffering through all the horrific nightmares of his past if he could hold onto this one, simple truth. He shivered at the feel of Bart’s fingers grazing his arms as he unintentionally sought Christian’s protection. Though, Christian couldn’t be sure if the artist was wanting him to assure him he was or wasn’t going to continue his seduction.

 

 

Christian’s voice was clearly painfully distracted. “Trade...trade me places.” He gulped. “Careful.”

 

 

It took far too long for Bart to find his fear again as he tried not to watch Christian running the soap over his body. “May...may I get out now?”

 

 

“No. Wait for me.” He scratched his fingers along his hair as he dipped his head back in the water. Bart took the opportunity to finally look directly at his body, but the priest didn’t call him out on it as felt his eyes on him.

 

 

Bart sighed in relief when Christian didn’t stop him from putting his clothes back on once they were finally out of the shower. The artist hesitated as he caught himself wondering why Christian was able to restrain himself from taking what he wanted from him. It was humiliating rather than comforting to think he might be reading the priest so wrong. A part of him wanted to communicate over the topic, but he changed his mind when he looked over to Christian’s chair to find him expectedly watching him again.

 

 

He looked angry now, and he was playing with the safety on his gun, clicking it on and off as his foot jittered against where he had it propped on his other knee.

 

 

“So. Um. When are we going to...you know?” Bart elaborated when Christian frowned at him and tilted his head. “Join our hands in holy matrimony?” He was being dramatic again, and Christian thought that his hostage had better be careful or he was going to get himself fucked before his wedding night.

 

 

“When you get a fucking grip on yourself enough for me to know you’re not going to start screaming as soon as we’re in public. Fuck.” There wasn’t as much venom behind his words as there might have been before. “So. In a few hours when the officiant gets here. I guess you’ve got until the sun comes up before I start to lose my patience.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Are you sure he won’t try to tip off the officiant?” Steve pushed a brown paper bag across the table, and then he sat a tiny black bag and a folder next to it.

 

 

Christian rubbed his palms against his temple. “Why. So. Fucking. Loud in here?!” When he opened his eyes, Steve was looking at him pointedly.

 

 

“Honestly, Christian. I kind of like the guy, so-”

 

 

“Fucks sake. Of course, he’s not gonna do anything stupid. He doesn’t want the man to get killed.” Christian’s eyes shifted to Bart when the artist turned away just in time to avoid spitting his drink all over Steve. Bart patted his napkin against his lips vigorously and then rubbed it along his shirt. The priest sighed loud before cramming food into his mouth. “Thwish awa nweed?”

 

 

“Yep. That’s all you need. It’s just the marriage certificate, which you’ll all sign, and your id’s. I also took the liberty of getting you the ones with your new names on them, too, since you’ll only have these names for a few hours anyway. You’ll be all set for a fresh start.”

 

 

Christian glared at him. What the fuck did he know about fresh starts? The priest tucked the small bag into his pocket, sat the larger bag of drugs in his lap for safe keeping, and then slid a stack of money across the table to Steve.

 

 

“And don’t fire the guy, either. You have no idea what I go through around here to find these people.”

 

 

Bart’s brows knit in confusion as Steve insinuated he worked for Christian at the casino as well as being some kind of right-hand man that kept popping up in their life. If Christian had power over this casino, that would explain why everything was catered to his lifestyle.

 

 

“Look. Why don’t you come back? Spend some time here for a while. Before, Christian, that wasn’t your fault. You just lost your temper, and he deserved for you to-”

 

 

Christian hissed him into silence with a wide-eyed frown. “Just mind your own fucking business. Steve.” He muttered something about Steve being a nosey cunt as he suddenly became fascinated with the food on his plate. He sat down his fork and grumbled as his headache throbbed harder. It was several minutes before he realized he’d been hearing Steve and Bart talking for no telling how long.

 

 

Christian tried to blink away the haze when he looked up to see that Bart was over-exaggerating his hand gestures and holding his chin high as he rambled on about art. The priest cut his eyes to Steve. The bastard looked genuinely interested. He must have picked up the slack in the conversation by turning to Bart when Christian dozed off; or whatever had just happened.

 

 

The thought crossed him, however, that Steve had just been loyal to him. He hadn’t carelessly taken off when Christian zoned out and allowed his hostage to escape. Instead, he had engaged Bart to keep him from noticing he had a window to run.

 

 

Christian’s attention went back to the artist. His shoulders were relaxed, and he was speaking freely and fluidly. He didn’t think Steve was going to hurt him; at least not in public. He looked back to Steve. What was he doing to make Bart relax to him? Maybe not gritting his teeth? Maybe not waving a gun at him? Perhaps it was that he wasn’t forcing him into marriage in a thinly veiled threat to collect money after murdering him?

 

 

Bart did a double take in the serial killer’s direction. His voice was as soft as ever. “Christian? Are...are you alright?” And there it was again. He was back to stammering insecurely. His worried eyes followed Christian when the priest stood abruptly as if Bart was wondering what he’d done wrong.

 

 

“Come on. I want to take this back to the room.” He waved the paper bag of cocaine and reached for the artist. His heart wrenched when Bart looked to the floor when he pulled him to his feet.

 

 

Back in the room, Bart rummaged for his drawing book and fell onto the bed on his stomach to pencil out his emotions as Christian arranged his drugs the way he liked.

 

 

It was well into the morning when Christian stepped into Bart’s view beside the bed. The artist gulped as noticed the gun dangling in his hand before his eyes traveled up Christian’s body. He had removed the white collar from his shirt and the top few buttons were pressed open. Bart could only assume he thought it would be awkward to go to his own wedding dressed as a priest; or maybe he thought the officiator would think so. He searched the serial killer’s dark expression.

 

 

“Well.” Christian’s arm and eye twitched at the same time as he had some kind of quick spasm.

 

 

“W-well?” Bart’s tone was gentle as his face tilted back down to the weapon. Christian used the gun to direct Bart to look back up at him, and the artist shivered. “Whatever you would like from me, C-Christian.”

 

 

Christian doubted that Bart could even begin to comprehend what all he’d like from him. The con artist didn’t realize a trace of vulnerability had crossed his features until Bart’s brows melded into a curious frown. Bart opened his mouth to speak, but Christian quickly turned away.

 

 

“Then get ready and let’s go.”

 

 

Christian was patient with the artist as he dragged his feet like he was heading to the noose rather than his wedding. He wasn’t nearly as patient with the uppity officiator. Bart fidgeted nervously as Christian aimed his scowl across to him and rubbed his forehead desperately as he fought not to draw his gun and kill the man between them.

 

 

Christian waved his hand and grumbled when it was his turn to say I do. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Come on.” His eyes locked onto Bart with all too much awareness, however, when it was his turn to answer. His fingers twitched when Bart hesitated, and his elbow bent ever so slightly as if he was considering reaching for his gun.

 

 

“I do.” Bart’s mouth was open as he fought to get enough oxygen.

 

 

“Hurry it up, would you?  My head is fucking killing me.” Christian bristled when the officiator didn’t skip nearly far enough ahead. “Move it along!”

 

 

The man fumbled over his words as his index finger scanned down his notes. “Uh, rings?”

 

 

Bart blinked rapidly when Christian cursed and yanked the small black bag from his pocket. The con artist’s hands shook as he dumped the contents into his palm. There were two rings, each attached to a necklace. “We’ll size them later.” He shoved one of the necklaces down around Bart’s head and then dropped the other one into place around his own neck.

 

 

_Wait._ Bart took a closer look at the man in front of him. _Is he being serious about this?_ Why would he bother with rings if he wasn’t? Sweat was pouring down Bart’s face as he glanced to the officiator. The man was looking at him with thick concern.

 

 

“Are you okay, sir?”

 

 

Christian snapped at him. “Of course, he is! Get on with it! Christ!” They needed to get out of there before Bart gave everything away. He was doing a piss-poor job of pretending he wasn’t a goddamn hostage.

 

 

The man cleared his throat and Christian’s lip twitched into a snarl. Bart’s eyes widened and he shook his head to plead with the serial killer not to lose his patience when the officiator looked back down to his notes. Christian growled when the man continued but added an entire sentence before he concluded their union.

 

 

“It is my joy and privilege to pronounce you partners in life.”

 

 

“Thank fucking god. Let’s go.” Christian turned on heel but only got two or three yards away before the officiator, now highly suspicious, spoke again.

 

 

“You may now _kiss_ the groom.”

 

 

Christian froze. He could hear Bart’s teeth chattering as he assumed Christian was now going to kill the man. Bart held up his hands to try and reason with him as Christian stalked back towards them.

 

 

Christian was considering shooting the whole place up, but then Bart’s hands reached for him, touched him, and a jolt of electricity fired across his brain. In a heartbeat, Christian’s lips were pressed against his, and Bart’s entire body seized up as his fingers clenched in Christian’s shirt.

 

 

The artist made a delicate noise that was somewhere between confusion and distress, but then Christian’s hand slid to the back of his head, and his other hand snaked around his waist. Bart’s eyes rolled back as Christian dipped him back and took advantage of how it made his mouth drop open to slide his tongue past his lips.

 

 

 The artist’s initial whine melded into a curious moan as Christian kissed him expertly and thorough. The room began to spin, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the heat dancing along his tongue and prodding against each of his teeth, or if it was because the priest wasn’t allowing him enough time to breath as he held him in the vulnerable position where Bart was so completely off balance.

 

 

Bart’s hands slid up to Christian’s shoulders and then weakly draped around his neck. Christian hummed at the touch, and the sound vibrated through the artist’s soul and drew a long series of mewls that Christian greedily drank in as he continued to dominate his hostage’s senses. Christian took a step forward, bending his knee and dipping him further, and the little sounds the artist was making began to progressively stretch out from tiny mewls to longer, needier moans.

 

 

Christian ripped his mouth away and committed the image of Bart’s heavy-lidded eyes and slack jaw to memory. That look of surrender was doing things to the con artist, and he wasn’t at all sure if he was going to be able to stop from throwing him down on the ground to have him right then and there. The loss of clear thinking frightened him, and before he knew it, he was releasing the artist and turning away.

 

 

Bart thumped to the floor with a yelp and stared after Christian’s retreating form. His chest was heaving as he lifted onto his elbows and felt behind him for his hat. A romantic song had begun to play, and he looked to the officiant in disbelief when he spoke to Christian again. What was wrong with the man? Had he no survival instincts at all?

 

 

“But, sir! What about your first dance? Everyone-”

 

 

“Fuck you.” Christian was moving toward the glass doors of the chapel room, but he stopped cold when Chief passed by the glass before taking a few steps back and reaching for the handle. “You know what?” Christian turned and stormed back to the artist who was only just getting back to his feet. “Maybe that does sound romantic. Right, baby?”

 

 

Bart gulped when Christian’s hands were suddenly on him again. The artist searched his eyes as Christian began to sway with him. The con artist was sweating now, and when Chief’s voice carried across the room, even though he was trying not to disturb the couple, a visible shudder rolled across Christian’s shoulders. Bart’s eyebrows rose in question.

 

 

“My partner lost his badge yesterday.” Chief explained to the officiant. “I’m just going to take a quick look around.” He didn’t pay any attention to the couple dancing in the middle of the room as he leaned around the pews and sighed in agitation. If he’d dared to intrude on the newlywed’s privacy, he might have easily recognized Bart.

 

 

Christian’s eyes were worried as he tried to read Bart’s expression. Was he going to call out to the cop? Would he try to get his attention since the man kept running into him and would recognize him and put everything together? He hung on Bart’s every quirk until the cop finally left. Christian could still see Chief moving around just outside the door, so when the song was over, he requested another one.

 

 

This seemed to make the officiant relax a small measure, but then he settled into a pew far too close to them to wait out their dance so that he might be able to hear what Bart was whispering. The artist was falling apart in his arms as Christian kept touching him, kept pulling him closer and moving with him so carefully. He was whispering Christian’s name far too many times, and the con artist needed to do something to drown out the small, incriminating chants before the officiant was able to make sense of it and wonder why is id and signature held a different name.

 

 

Christian pressed his lips to Bart’s temple and then raised his voice just high enough for the nosey man in the pew to hear him as he spoke right against the artist’s ear. “Yeah, I can’t wait to get back to our room, either, sweetheart. God, I want you so fucking bad. Look at you, shaking all excited for me. The things I’m going to do to you.” The officiant shifted uncomfortably, and Christian knew he’d found his weakness. “You have no idea, baby. I’m gonna fuck you so good. Fuck you so deep. Make you beg for my cock, baby. Fuck, I want you so bad. I’m going to make such a mess of this beautiful body. Gonna unload in you so hard it’ll come out your goddamn eyes-okay. He’s gone now. Calm down. Calm. Caaaalm. Easy...”

 

 

“Ohgodohgodohgod...” Bart’s head had dropped back, and he was staring at the ceiling in shock as his fingertips bruised Christian’s shoulders. “Haaaah...” His hips jerked when Christian couldn’t stop himself from latching his mouth onto his exposed throat.

 

 

When the priest next spoke, his lips moved against the tender skin he had just sucked into a warm red circle. “Let’s go. Come on.” He waited for Bart to tilt his head down before he guided him towards the door with a hand resting on his lower back.

 

 

“You’re okay,” he reminded when Bart eyed him warily as he stopped at a shelf just outside the chapel. It was filled with all kinds of sex accessories, and Christian hastily nabbed a bag and began to pilfer entire bottles of lube and no telling what else.

 

 

“You have absolutely no shame, do you?” Bart raised his chin as if he was so much better than Christian, but the con artist wasn’t fazed.

 

 

He grabbed for Bart’s wrist when the artist turned toward the casino lobby as if he was considering leaving. “Let’s go to the room and order something to eat. I’m so goddamn tired.” Bart seemed a little skeptical, but ultimately the reassurance worked to make him not start screaming and running as Christian led him toward the hotel doorway.

 

 

“Tell me about Van Gogh.” Christian looked over his shoulder briefly when Bart gasped in excitement before he unleashed an overload of chatter towards Christian’s back that continued into the elevator. “Go on.” He encouraged when Bart began to trail off as the lights on the wall alerted them they were nearing their floor.

 

 

Bart backed against the far wall. “You...you’re distracting me? From what, might I ask?” Was the con artist being merciful? Was he going to kill him this soon and working sly as sin to help Bart not focus on his impending doom? There was nothing Bart could do about it other than be grateful that a part of the serial killer was going to try and make this sudden for him.

 

 

“Just keep talking.” Christian didn’t seem upset when it took Bart halfway down the hallway toward their door before he nervously returned to his speech. Christian clamped his hand around his arm as he slid the key in the door, even though Bart made no move to run, and he motioned for the artist to go ahead of him.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Bart didn’t look behind him as he entered the hotel room and headed in the direction of the drawing book he’d left on the bed. “Christian?”

 

 

“Yeah.” Christian loosened one more button on his shirt so that he could easily get it over his head. Bart didn’t notice him drop his shirt to the floor. His hand drifted down to the fastenings of his pants.

 

 

“You know...I trust you.”

 

 

“Mmhmm.” He stepped out of his combat boots without falling too far behind in his pursuit of the artist toward the bed. He took the gun from his pants.

 

 

“We are friends, right?”

 

 

“Sure.” His pants hit the floor.

 

 

Bart tensed and froze when he heard the metallic sound of Christian fiddling with the gun behind him. The artist closed his eyes as an icy wave washed through his blood. “Christian.” Bart swallowed the lump in his throat as he fought not to focus on how his death might come, and he whispered, “Y-y-you’re a monster.”

 

 

Christian hummed his agreement as he sat the gun on a table against the wall that held a fake potted plant. He picked up a knife from the tray of cocaine next to it and balanced a small mound of powder on the blade. He didn’t realize the blade made a recognizable scraping noise that further frightened his hostage. He sniffed noisily. He hoped the artist would keep being dramatic. He could get high on that alone. The knife made a clinking sound as he returned it to the tray.

 

 

Bart turned to him with closed eyes and bravely straightened his back. “Well. Do it, then. Kill me.” He flinched and gasped Christian’s name when he immediately felt the priest’s hands on his waist.

 

 

“Killing’s not what’s on my mind right now, sweetheart.” He pulled Bart’s shirt over his head, knocking his hat to the floor in the process. He was already removing his glasses before the closed lids flew open.

 

 

“Christian? Christian!” Bart was unsuccessful in batting his hands away from the zipper of his pants. The backs of his legs hit the bed and he realized he was already cornered. He turned around with the intention of crawling over the mattress to escape him, but he only managed to fall face-down when Christian shoved his pants down. The cool air hit his skin and Bart’s hands clawed against the comforter as he felt the serial killer’s weight fall over him. “CHRISTIAN!”

 

 

“That’s it, baby. Say my name.” Christian relished the goosebumps that rolled across Bart’s skin as he planted open-mouth kisses along his shoulder blades.

 

 

“Y-YOU’RE AN ABSOLUTE BEAST, CHRISTIAN!” He accused before he gasped and arched back when the priest pressed his large member against his backside. “Oh! Oh, dear god! Christian be gentle with me! Please, be gentle!”

 

 

Christian groaned as the artist played his overly theatric part perfectly. “Alright. Get on your back. Center of the bed. You don’t want me to chase you down.” He lifted enough for Bart to pull himself out from under him. He caught his legs as he went, tugging off his shoes and pulling his pants the rest of the way off.

 

 

The artist scrambled beneath the covers and pulled them up to his neck. He blushed furiously and turned his face away when the priest retrieved the bag of stolen sex goods and dumped them onto the bed. Christian lifted the covers and pushed the artist to lie back. He pressed Bart’s thighs apart and settled between his legs in the deceptively safe way they had slept several times.

 

 

Bart was temporarily relieved when Christian didn’t move to further their physical encounter. Instead he bent his knees and held himself up on his hands to look down at him.

 

 

Christian’s voice was gruff. “So, tell me this. Bart. You’re obviously interested. You’re responding to this shit so hard you’re leaking all over yourself.” Bart covered his face in humiliation. “Why are you so afraid of this?” He pushed Bart’s hands away and his dark, sunken eyes caused Bart to shift uncomfortably. “Answer me.”

 

 

“Christian...”

 

 

Christian’s head tilted as he watched Bart’s mouth with avid interest. “Keep chanting my name and wriggling like that and see what happens.”

 

 

“If...if you must do this to me, Christian...” His voice was so soft as he fought his frightened tears. “Don’t make it hurt more than necessary. I’ve...I’ve been a good hostage. Well. Mostly. Have I not?”

 

 

Well isn’t that goddamn adorable? Why the fuck would he think sex hurts? Christian realized he needed to ask him this to further understand what was happening between them. “Why do you think sex is going to hurt?”

 

 

Bart looked at him incredulously.

_Oh, right. Fuck. I’m his kidnapper, and he’s my hostage, and that could reasonably imply I don’t have good intentions. Fucking...fuck._

 

 

Bart turned his glossy eyes away, embarrassed and confused. How was he supposed to know anything at all about this? Christian sighed long and loud before he lowered himself to press his lips on Bart’s in a careful, almost chaste kiss. He nuzzled against his neck and nipped his earlobe before rumbling right against his ear, clear and insistent. “I won’t hurt you, Bart. I promise. I won’t hurt you.”

 

 

Bart’s hands clenched against the pillow beside his head as his arms remained out in a gesture of surrender. He was hyper aware of Christian’s tongue as it traveled along his neck, and Bart’s hips were unconsciously pulsing in seek of contact. “O-o-okay.”

 

 

_Wait, what?_ The priest lifted to look at him. He knew there were more theatrics coming, and even though he would play it off like he was annoyed, he could hardly wait for it.

 

 

Bart gulped. “Okay. Christian. I c-can’t take the suspense anymore!” His arm draped over his eyes in this beautiful diva manner that caused Christian to growl in anticipation. “Take me! Just t-take me! Have your way with me, you filthy barbarian! Do what you must!”

 

 

Christian knew his pupils were dilating now by how bright the dark room suddenly appeared. The guy was better than fucking crack, and Christian was hooked. He was long gone. Bart was his new favorite fix, and there was no way he could ever get enough. The kid couldn’t possibly be ready for Christian to have his unrestrained way with him, but he was going to do something to him, that was for goddamn sure.

 

 

“Relax. I want more than that.” Christian didn’t realize he was saying it out loud until it was already spoken.

 

 

“M-more?” Bart whimpered. “C-Christian, what more could I possibly give you?” Did he mean his life? He shivered and searched the serial killer’s eyes.

 

 

Bart’s hips were still writhing, and Christian dropped his lower half to meet the motions, pressing against him and dragging upwards torturously slow. The priest pressed Bart’s arms out beside his head so that he could hide nothing from him as Bart’s mouth fell open and his eyes rolled back. Bart’s back arched, and he cried out when Christian repeated the wave of pressure.

 

 

“Ffffuck...” Christian paused when Bart’s entire body began quaking like he was already on the verge of release. “Fuck, baby...”

 

 

Bart bit his lip as he continued to fret over where this was all going to lead. Christian smoothed his thumb along Bart’s brow to try and soothe him. Then he began to trail his hand down his face, his neck, and his chest, stopping for only a heartbeat to drag his thumb across his nipple to investigate how sensitive he was there.

 

 

“Oh! Christian! C-Christian!” The guy’s entire body was a fucking hair-trigger, and Christian didn’t know what he could possibly have done for the fates to gift him with such a thing. When Christian lifted onto his knees to make space between them, and his hand continued down his body, Bart wept. “A-and it w-won’t hurt?”

 

 

“I’m not going to fuck you right now.” His vocal chords were dry with the labor of speaking when he was completely out his mind with fascination over the creature beneath him. “Later. I’ll teach you later. You’ll be begging for my cock, then.” Bart made a strangled little noise at his words and then again at the feel of Christian’s fingers feathering across his hips as his hand went lower. “Relax now. Feel this. Let this happen.” Christian was holding himself up with one elbow, and he tucked his hand under Bart’s head to tangle his fingers in his hair.

 

 

“Oh, god!” Bart choked when Christian grasped his hair a little too tight and used the grip to force him to look up at him. The priest was sucking air in through his mouth as his dangerous eyes drank in the artist’s every reaction to his attention. Bart’s heels pressed against the mattress as Christian’s hand moved down his leg and then dragged back up his thigh. “Ohgodohgodohgod! Christian!” He was pinned in the serial killer’s sights as Christian barely grazed his palm along his cock from root to tip.

 

 

Christian wasn’t about to miss this look. The artist had never been touched by another person, and he belonged to Christian now. He was his alone to touch and tease and teach. He carefully wrapped his fingers around his length, giving one gentle tug, and Bart’s mouth fell open wide as his eyes communicated in no uncertain terms that Christian was now the god of his world.

 

 

Bart’s hands splayed out at his sides in search of something to anchor him in reality as Christian set a rhythm in time with the heartbeat he could now feel throbbing and needy against his hand. Bart wasn’t going to last long, and Christian didn’t want him to. He ran his thumb through the steady drizzle and circled the fluid around the head of the artist’s cock. The priest’s body was still and firm in contrast to the way Bart was writhing beneath him.

 

 

“Let it go for me, baby.” Christian twisted his palm, tightened his grip, and stroked him more steadily. That’s all it took for Bart’s body to obey him. He was unsuccessfully fighting the unstoppable mist that was rolling across his questioning eyes as he searched Christian’s hungry features like he didn’t quite understand what was happening to him.

 

 

Within seconds his eyes glazed over, and Christian groaned as he watched his focus disappear. Bart’s hips and his chest jerked with a violent orgasm that made Christian’s heart fucking ache as he watched him fall apart for him while sobbing his name. “There you go, sweetheart. That’s perfect. That’s fucking perfect...”

 

 

He milked him until Bart twitched with over-stimulation. When he released him, the artist’s entire body went as limp as a rag-doll. Christian finally allowed him a moment of privacy to gather himself by dropping his forehead onto his shoulder.

 

 

Christian had been so enamored with his hostage that he had all but forgotten his own desire. The dull throb seemed distant and unimportant as he planted a kiss right next to Bart’s wedding band where the necklace had ridden up to his collarbone while he’d been ravished.

 

 

“What...what do you want of me now?”

 

 

“Just rest. You did good. You can-HAH! FUCK! FUCKING FFFFUU-”

 

 

Bart jerked his hand away from Christian’s cock. “I’m sorry! Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to-”

 

 

“No.” Christian shuddered with need as he reached for Bart’s hand to put it back on him. “I just didn’t expect you to get brave on me, is all. Don’t s-stop, oh fuck, yeah. Fuck, don’t stop...” The touch was hesitant and clearly inexperienced from an angle he was unfamiliar with stroking, but it didn’t matter. The artist’s hand was on him, and Christian hadn’t realized how much it would affect him.

 

 

Bart didn’t seem to expect he would have such a potent effect on the man, either. His eyes were wide as he listened to Christian breathing heavily into his neck. Bart stared at the mirror overhead, quickly second guessing his safety as Christian’s grunts increased. His cock throbbed large in his hand, and the longer he touched him, the more often Christian began to thrust into the touch.

 

 

The artist kept forgetting to move his hand altogether as the reflection above him planted images in his head of how capable the man on top of him would be to pump his powerful hips against him if and when he finally decided to take him. Christian didn’t berate him for his distraction, rather, he used the lull in focus to draw out the feelings. Before long, however, the buildup was too much.

 

 

Bart sucked in a breath when Christian lifted his head and framed the artist’s face in his hands. His eyes were intense as he looked at him for a time before sinking his mouth onto his. The attention caused Bart’s hand to speed up, and Christian moaned into his mouth. The knowledge that he had the ability to affect him so greatly was a heady feeling, and Bart pushed his fears away to focus more completely on the task at hand.

 

 

Christian tore his mouth away and cursed. His fingers clenched against Bart’s face as he opened his lust-clouded eyes. “Bart...baby...sweetheart...fuck...” He panted, and several emotions flitted across his features that Bart wasn’t sure how to read. He looked scared, and then guilty, and then angry for a terrifying moment.

 

 

Then the frown melted away and a combination of fear and abandon settled in to stay.  “I love you,” tumbled out almost too quick for Bart to make sense of, but then he repeated it more clearly as he approached his release. “I...fuck...I’m ffffucking in love with you...” He held Bart’s shocked expression until he was sure it had sunk in. He then mashed his lips on his, and his body stiffened as he emptied himself into Bart’s hand and all over his stomach.

 

 

Christian adored the tiny gargle of protest as more fluid was added to the already present mess on Bart’s body. The artist whined as Christian collapsed on him as if he didn’t care that he was making the situation filthier.

 

 

It was only a few minutes before Christian rolled onto his back. He enjoyed watching Bart in the mirror as the artist looked down at himself helplessly before finally deciding to wipe his hand on his on leg. He glanced toward the bathroom, but his legs were still quivering too hard for him to consider trying to walk.

 

 

Christian stood, and he felt Bart’s eyes on him as he opened a bottle of water and tilted his head back to chug the entire thing. When he was finished, he threw it to the side and tossed another one at the artist. “Drink.” He walked back to the table and inhaled more cocaine. Then he twitched and sneezed before falling back into the chair he now routinely left at the foot of the bed for sitting in while he watched Bart sleep.

 

 

His exhausted expression was unreadable, and Bart sipped the water long after he was done quenching his thirst to avoid speaking.

 

 

“You done?”

 

 

“Am I finished with what?”

 

 

“The drink.” Christian’s hand wafted lazily towards him. Bart nodded. “You gotta piss?”

 

 

“C-come again?”

 

 

“That’s the plan. So, you need to piss or anything?” When Bart only gaped at him, Christian pushed to his feet, knelt onto the bed, and crawled toward him.

 

 

“Wait! C-Christian!” Bart wasn’t ready to go again, and he backed toward the headboard. “I don’t know if I can...can...so soon...”

 

 

“That’s fine. Just let me look at you.” Christian yanked Bart’s legs so that he was pulled onto his back. Since Bart was sweaty but not going to return to the physical exertion, Christian pulled the sheets over their lower halves to keep him warm as he dropped down over him.

 

 

“Well! Oh! Oh, my...” Bart’s eyes were as wide as saucers as Christian took no shame in dropping his hand to stroke himself as he stared down at the artist. Christian was quickly approaching release, and Bart whimpered in a mixture of awe and trepidation. “Y-you’re an animal, Christian...”

 

 

“It’s the drugs.”

 

 

“It isn’t just the drugs! You’re a deviant!”

 

 

“Mmhmm. Say my name again.”

 

 

“C-Christian...”

 

 

“Again. Say it like I’m about to cram my cock in your ass.” When Bart blinked rapidly and stammered, Christian sat back and shoved his free hand under his knee to lift his leg and spread him open.

 

 

“CHRISTIAN! CHRISTIAN! OH GOD CHRISTIAN! PLEASE! CHRISTIAN-” Bart quaked as the priest dropped back down over him and groaned as he came. “Christian!” The last proclamation of his name was accusing as Christian further debauched him. “I’m a complete mess!” He cried. “L-look what you’ve done to me!”

 

 

He squeaked when Christian sat back to do just that. The priest hummed as if he was pleased with the sight, and the vibration caused Bart’s cock to twitch with interest. Christian arched a brow and tilted his head like a curious dog.

 

 

“No! C-Christian!” Bart pointed at him as Christian’s eyes looked up to him without tilting his face up from where he’d been staring between his legs. The angle looked predatory and ominous as his deep-set eyes were cast in further shadow. The priest moved leisurely now as he slowly leaned toward him again. “Oh, dear, sweet lord...Christian. You c-couldn’t possibly...”

 

 

Bart shivered as the priest lapped his tongue along his stomach far too close to the mess they’d made. He mostly worked around the splotches, however, as he moved downward, still looking up to Bart’s eyes.

 

 

“W-what, um, what are y-you doing?”

 

 

“Guess.” Christian didn’t give him much time to guess. Instead he dragged his tongue up his cock. His hands flew down to hold Bart’s hips in place when the warm, wet touch caused him to buck upwards. Christian sank his mouth down around him, and his name tumbled from the artist’s lips with a whole new meaning as euphoria quickly overrode his fears.

 

 

Bart’s legs fell open as his body melted into the bed. Christian was finding that the guy was all the more beautiful when he was taking a break from begging for his life. The artist’s head tilted from one side to the other, and his hands raked along the sheets as he became lost in the sensation.

 

 

Bart’s voice was so fucking soft as he moaned unintelligible half-thoughts, and Christian’s unnatural appetite was already impatiently prodding against the mattress beneath him again. He pushed the thought of it away for the moment and slid his hands up to meet Bart’s as he noticed them unconsciously reaching down in search of his reassurance. He threaded their fingers together, and Bart swooned.

 

 

Christian growled around the artist’s length as his own cock refused to be ignored after only a short time of watching Bart respond so passionately to him. He moved Bart’s hands to rest on his head, and the artist lifted to look down at him as if Christian had just tricked him into committing some kind of social impropriety.

 

 

Christian reached for his own cock as he watched the cogs turning in Bart’s swimming mind. The artist’s fingers ran through Christian’s hair and stroked down his face before his determination not to do something as impolite as direct someone’s mouth on your dick won over his morals, and he tore his hands away. His eyes shifted to Christian’s shoulder and down his arm as he confirmed the man was working on himself again. He hiccuped in disbelief before Christian took him deep in his throat and made his head fall back in bliss.

 

 

“Oh, god, Christian...” His hands stretched over his head and his short nails scratched against the headboard. “Christian...I can’t...hold it...” The priest only groaned in response and took him deeper so that the vibration in his throat left the artist no willpower to hold back. “Christian...I really...oooooh god...”

 

 

Bart’s hand jolted towards his chest when the bottom sheet popped free from the corner of the mattress and folded towards him as his vision went white. He didn’t realize he was thrusting up even when Christian choked lightly before adjusting himself to hold Bart’s body as his orgasm rippled across him looking almost painful this time.

 

 

The artist was floating in a peaceful afterglow that was so potent he didn’t even feel Christian’s body return over top of him. The priest was still working away at himself steadily as he worshipped the man beneath him so completely his sanity threatened to leave him. He loved him in a way that only the emotionally unstable can fathom, and in a way that rarely ended without tragedy.

 

 

His soul ached and his paranoia bristled as the combination of drugs, and want, and obsession, and the introduction of love that was far too pure pushed his heart to slam against his ribcage until he called out helplessly. Bart didn’t have the strength to make even a noise of protest this time as Christian released over him again.

 

 

It was several minutes before Bart’s mind cleared enough for him to wonder if Christian was still alive. “C-Christian?” He poked the limp body and sighed in relief when Christian grumbled in response. “You...you sure are...rather...virile.”

 

 

Christian tried to push himself up, but his arms began to shake violently. He instead shoved them underneath Bart’s body and clutched him against him as he burst into tears.

 

 

“W-w-what’s happening?” Bart froze. “Christian?”

 

 

“It’s the drugs.” Christian sobbed.

 

 

“Oh, dear. Oh, boy. Okay...” Bart was terrified now. “Oh...sh-shit...” He felt more warmth against his shoulder than could possibly be coming from tear ducts, so he looked down to investigate. “Christian, you’re bleeding again.”

 

 

“Fuck!” He wasn’t cursing because of the nosebleed. He was cursing because Bart was afraid of him again, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Christian’s fists clenched in the sheets even beneath Bart’s shoulders. Wasn’t it a good thing for his hostage to have a healthy fear of him? All at once, he tore himself away from the artist and moved toward the drugs instead.

 

 

“Christian...I don’t think you should do anymore of that right now. M-maybe you should give it a rest.”

 

 

The priest ignored him as he plopped down into his chair and reached for the cocaine. “Don’t, Bart.” He sneezed violently.

 

 

“D-don’t what?” Bart’s eyes were wary.

 

 

“Don’t you turn on me. Don’t fucking betray me. WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO LOYALTY?!” He knocked the fake plant to the floor and rested his forehead on the table as he fought to gather himself. His fingers curled around the gun. “They all betray me. Why do they do it?”

 

 

Christian pushed to his feet and turned toward the bed with the gun. Bart’s head hit the wall before he even realized he was moving back. “Don’t hurt me, Christian. Please don’t hurt me.”

 

 

Christian glared at him in silence for several heartbeats before he rattled his head and murmured, “Stop me. Somebody please stop me. Help me.”

 

 

“S-stop you?” Bart gulped as Christian blinked rapidly as if trying to see him more clearly.

 

 

His eyes landed on Bart’s face, and he seemed to finally focus on him for a moment. His frown softened, and the pain returned to his eyes. Then he readied the gun and pressed the barrel to his own temple. He clenched his eyes shut as Bart screamed and scrambled towards him. “NO! GOD PLEASE NO CHRISTIAN STOP PLEASE!”

 

 

Christian’s eyes popped open in a wide-eyed frown when there was suddenly a sound from the bathroom of running water. It sounded like it was coming from the hot tub. The priest looked toward the doorway, but he made no move to investigate. He could only assume it was a hallucination as he blinked, suddenly groggy. He looked back towards Bart and a range of emotions drifted across his features. Christian’s arm went slack, and he clicked the safety on and off several times before he let the gun fall to the floor.

 

 

Bart was holding his hands out in front of him in a soothing gesture as he carefully inched closer to him. “W-won’t you just come over here. Christian. Come over here with me. Let’s...let’s talk about this. Maybe get some sleep?”

 

 

Christian’s eyes didn’t seem to see him anymore. Blood continued to pour from his nose, and then he coughed as some of the mess made its way down his throat. Blood bubbled from the corner of his mouth, shortly followed by a bit of foamy substance. He stared at a random place on the wall just to the left of Bart’s body.

 

 

“Christian? You’re scaring me! Christian!” Bart gasped as the priest collapsed heavily to the floor.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“Oh, god!” Bart scrambled to the floor beside the priest as he began convulsing in some kind of seizure. His hands hovered over him helplessly as his mouth foamed. “Oh, Jesus! Christian! What do I do? I n-need a phone. Phone-” He scanned around, and it was only then he processed he was hearing running water. “What the-”

 

 

His head whipped back to Christian when he heard a threatening growl. The serial killer’s eyes were wild and paranoid as he sat up and reached for Bart’s throat. This was it. This is how Bart was going to die. His kidnapper was going to kill him in a drug-fueled rage. He only had time to squeak as the priest’s hands flew towards him.

 

 

Then there was a strong arm hooked around Bart’s chest yanking him back just out of reach before dropping him gently to sit on the bed. “Hey, kiddos!” Dad clasped onto Christian’s arm and pulled him to fall face-down on the floor. He straddled him and pressed his arms to the side as Christian desperately fought his hold.

 

 

“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!”

 

 

Dad’s laugh was forced as he went through the motions of making the sound in an attempt to comfort Bart. “I know you would, sport!” He then began to pet Christian’s head and shoulders as he murmured soothing thoughts to him.

 

 

Christian’s eyes went even wider, and he stiffened at the touch and the tone at first. He slowly stopped struggling, however, and his body began to relax as he stared at his gun with less and less interest.

 

 

Dad turned his alert eyes and eternal smile in Bart’s direction. The artist yanked the sheets over his lower half as he fought to breath. “Wow, there, champ.” Dad’s eyes quickly scanned down Bart’s body before politely returning to his eyes. “Are you hurt?” Bart shook his head, and Dad’s practiced laugh was somehow both comforting and disturbing as he stated the obvious. “You are completely covered in sweat, tears, blood, cocaine, and semen.” Bart’s shaky hand pointed at Christian as if that should explain everything; and it did. “I know, kiddo.”

 

 

Christian’s voice slapped across them both making Bart jump and Dad blink serenely to reassure him. “Stop looking at him! STOP FUCKING LOOKING AT HIM OR I SWEAR TO MOM I’LL FIND A WAY TO FUCKING KILL YOU!”

 

 

“Oh-ho-kay, sport! Calm down. I don’t think that way about my kiddos. It’s just not a thing for you to worry about.”

 

 

Bart was impressed when Christian seemed to believe him enough to go limp as he sighed noisily. “What are you doing here?”

 

 

“Why, I’ve been surfing around the realities in search of a redeemable Christian, and you’re my best bet yet! I’m really glad you asked for help, or I might have missed my window!” Dad continued even though Christian began to curse and mumble like he wasn’t effectively able to concentrate on his words. “I’m so proud of you, kiddo! It’s been days since you’ve robbed anyone, or killed anyone, or even scammed anyone for that matter! You’ve been such a good boy!” Something about his last comment made Christian go tense with paranoia again as he tried to take inventory of why he was being held down again.

 

 

Dad continued to grin as he dug in his pocket. “Here. You need to take this.” Christian clamped his mouth shut. “You’re safe, kiddo. Bart is safe. Everything is ooo-kay. Take this sedative. We have to get your heart rate lowered. You have no idea how many times I’ve watched your heart fail in this situation. We have to do this part if this is going to work. No less than four of these over the next few days, no more than twelve or things go the other way.”

 

 

Bart’s eyes widened. “C-Christian! T-take the pill!”

 

 

Dad comforted him further as if he knew what he was thinking. “Don’t worry. It won’t work to knock you out, champ. You _are_ wired. In fact, I have not yet found a reasonable way to knock you out without killing you.”

 

 

Christian studied Bart’s worried eyes before he dropped his face back to the carpet. “Fine. Give me the fucking thing.”

 

 

Dad continued to hold him down for a time even though he was no longer struggling. He held his fingers up to his own ear like it was a phone, but then he stopped as if remembering something. “Oh, yeah. That’s too sudden for him. Say, kiddo.” He looked to Bart. “You think you could get Christian’s phone for me?” He tightened his hold when the priest began to struggle. “I just need to call Steve. That’s all. No one’s calling the police.” He looked to Bart. “Chief has killed him...quite a few times in other realities.” He leaned down to speak gently to the priest who was now kicking. “But as long as you refrain from killing Smith, you’ll be fine, kiddo. You’ll be just fine.”

 

 

“The fuck?” Christian’s head was spinning far too violently for him to force out all the questions he had about that. He watched Bart cross in front on him while pulling the sheets along with him, and then he laughed to himself darkly as he felt his cock twitching with interest. His face thumped heavily back to the floor and he gave up on trying to get free. “Fuck.”

 

 

The priest missed most of what Dad was saying into the phone. “Yes, kiddo! It’s Dad! This indeed is Christian’s number. Uh huh. That’s right. Overdosed again. Can you bring some oxygen and maybe some fluids to-oh that would be super, sport! Just come on in. We’ll be in the bath. Don’t look directly at Bart while you’re here, or we’ll have a situation. Alrighty! And Steve? I’m so proud of you!”

 

 

Bart swallowed heavily as Dad tossed the phone onto the bed. “W-we’ll be in the bath?”

 

 

“Sure thing! You see, you kids need to get cleaned up, but if you go out of Christian’s sight for very long, he’ll have a heart attack and die!”

 

 

“Oh! Oh, my. Well.” Bart nervously cleared his throat and straightened his back.

 

 

“I’ve tried quite a few variations of how this could go, and our best bet is to relax in the water. It will help him calm down, and you can be right in his line of sight.” He watched Bart for ques to his inner thoughts and asked him again. “Are you alright, kiddo? Christians affection can be...a little...” His teeth connected in almost a grimace while he continued to smile as his eyes shifted to the side in search of a good term. “Intense.”

 

 

“Stop talking to him.” Christian’s voice was distant as the sedative bubbled through his brain. He normally would have disguised at least a small portion of his possessive jealously, but his filter was demolished in the current situation.

 

 

“It’s okay, kiddo. I would never hurt one of my kids. My thoughts are pure.”

 

 

Christian at least had the sense to shiver when the strange creature seemed to know more about what was going on in his head than he did. Dad released his arms and Christian flexed his numb fingers before releasing a long, agitated sigh and pushing up to his elbows to cradle his head. He seemed far too familiar with being stuck in such an awkward situation as Dad continued to sit on him. It was as if he expected the fates to throw a random mind-fuck at him at regular intervals; or perhaps he wasn’t completely sure if any of it was really happening at all or if he was just having a bad trip.

 

 

Dad gave the sedatives another few moments to get moving through Christian’s system before he stood and tucked his arms under the priest’s chest to pull him to his feet. Dad wasn’t even winded as he went through the motions of voicing a grunt for Bart’s sake as if dragging a man across the room took any effort at all. Christian’s arms dangled as Dad walked backwards pulling him along. Christian’s frown progressively deepened as the bed and Bart started getting further away from him.

 

 

“Wow. You sure have gotten big, kiddo.” Dad was only being polite. When Christian stiffened as he finally processed the increasing distance between he and Bart, Dad called to the artist. “Come on, sport. Pull the sheets around you and bring them with you into the water.”

 

 

Christian’s violently trembling hands began to rake against the air in Bart’s direction desperately when the artist hesitated, so Bart leapt to his feet and went to him. He held the sheets in place with one hand as he reached out to him, and the priest’s fingers pinched weakly onto his hand as the artist followed them toward the tub.

 

 

Dad didn’t remove his own clothes as he hoisted Christian into the cool water and directed Bart to bring some soap and washcloths. He stepped into the tub with his shoes and all and pulled Christian’s back to rest against him. The priest’s shaking hands clasped onto Dad’s arm, which was locked around his chest, as he tried to process what was happening to him. His pupils were huge even behind heavy-lidded eyes as he searched the room for the artist and barked his name to command him to come to him.

 

 

“O-o-okay, Christian. I’m right here.” Bart climbed into the water as Dad explained something about needing to lower Christian’s body temperature to explain why it was lukewarm. The artist pressed the sheets down into the water to try and get them to stop floating away from his lower half.

 

 

“Come here.” Christian’s voice was void of emotion as he stretched his fingers towards him. Bart’s eyes shifted to Dad’s face, and Dad nodded and quietly mouthed that it was safe. “Bart!” Christian’s already frightening frown darkened violently. “Do what I fucking tell you! Don’t fucking look to someone else!”

 

 

“Okay!” Bart sank from the seat and knelt in the center of the tub as Dad tightened his hold on Christian. The priest’s eyes softened drastically as his fingers grazed along the blood covering Bart’s shoulder.

 

 

“That’s your blood, sport. Not his,” Dad hummed comfortingly.

 

 

Christian’s fingers splayed out as he dragged his hand through the deep red mess, and the artist blushed at the exploration as the touch traveled up the side of his neck. Christian’s expression was almost void as he watched his fingers paint the color of his own veins along the canvas of flesh. “Washing off my masterpiece,” he complained distantly, and Bart’s eyes widened.

 

 

He didn’t think his eyes could get any wider until Christian pulled his fingers up along his face and meshed blood across his cheek and over his forehead. Bart’s lips trembled in a combination of horror and flattery as Christian seduced him with a messed up, though strangely romantic, gesture that he was a work of art in his eyes. The artist was sure not to open his mouth for the fear that Christian would instinctively slide his soiled fingers in there.

 

 

Christian’s shoulder twitched toward his ear, and his cheek ticked with the convulsion. He gasped in a breath as his heart thrummed dangerously through his overdose. “If. If you. Get a. Hard on. I’ll kill you.” When Bart whined, he closed his eyes to struggle with finding the words to clarify his threat. “Not. You. Baby. Him.”

 

 

Dad chuckled, and his grin stayed in place. “That will not happen. Pull the sheets up just a bit, kiddo.” It was creepy how he said this just before they heard the sound of the hotel door opening as Steve entered as if Dad had known exactly when he would arrive. Steve cursed as he fumbled with the things he had brought to help rescue Christian.

 

 

“It’s just Steve, kiddo. It’s your friend. That’s all.” Dad stroked his hand along Christian’s head as the priest’s hand clutched at his own chest like he was in pain, and he probably was. His mouth hung open as he fought to get enough air.

 

 

Steve dutifully didn’t look to Bart as he sat an oxygen tank next to the tub and turned to retrieve a rolling IV pole that held a bag of fluids. The tube fell from its perch and he had to stop to gather it before he continued. He then turned his attention to fitting a fresh needle on the end of the tube. Dad politely asked him how he was doing.

 

 

“Eh. We’re trying to build a type of jungle gym thing for adults, but some jackass designed the ball pit too deep and people keep getting stuck in there under like three feet of balls over their heads. Would probably help if the drop-off to jump in wasn’t so high giving them all that momentum when they hit the pit.”

 

 

“That is not good.” Dad was looking at Bart now as if he should be paying attention, but the artist was clearly too distracted with Christian’s well-being.

 

 

“Yeah. We’ve closed it off for now after some guy had a panic attack and kept flailing around until he sank to the bottom like fucking sinking sand or somethin’. I mean, Jesus. All you have to do is slowly make your way to the side and pull yourself out. It’s not even that wide. Guy was terrified for some reason. I think he’s traumatized for life. I wish Christian would tell me what he wants to do about it. He’s good at decisions like that if he’d just put his attention on it.”

 

 

Christian was having trouble forcing his eyes open as his attention shifted desperately from Steve to Bart. His hands clawed harder against Dad’s hold as he writhed. Dad’s movements were paced and calm as he continued to pin him against his body and fumbled with the oxygen mask with one hand. Christian stiffened as his mouth was covered, and then jerked when Dad released the elastic to pop against the back of his head a little too hard. The priest’s eyes were frantic, but then the more potent oxygen rushed into his lungs. His eyes rolled back, and he groaned in relief as he inhaled more deeply.

 

 

Steve pulled Christian’s arm over to insert the needle, and the priest stilled completely other than his shaking as he focused all his attention on the man. “I’m gonna put some new sheets and covers on the bed, too. What the hell was going in there? Look, don’t even answer that. Jesus, Christian.” He looked to the priest to find his eyes on him. “God, that’s unnerving.” Steve shivered when he wasn’t able to hold Christian’s glare without it burning. “You got him?” Christian wasn’t trying to pull away, but his eyes seemed suddenly a little too aware as he studied Steve, and the man was more than a little spooked.

 

 

Dad’s voice was clear as he enunciated his words to assure Steve he was safe. Christian jerked at the sound, but then his free hand squeezed against Dad’s arm as if a part of him was accepting that he was there to save him from himself. He inhaled deeply, painfully, before his eyes settled back onto Bart. His lids started to close, but then his eyes widened again as if the impending sleep had been a threat.

 

 

Christian’s eyes went blank and his head tilted to the side. Bart scrubbed at his own face to have something to do after Christian finally seemed to drift out of awareness. The priest’s head lolled back against Dad’s shoulder, and the creature pat him. Bart modestly waited for Steve to leave before he dared to wash down his chest and stomach. Then he carefully moved to run the cloth along Christian to clean him up.

 

 

“Get his lower parts before he wakes up, sport. He won’t be able to handle arousal right now.” His voice was softer so as not to trigger Christian back into awareness.

 

 

Bart did as he said. He became less paranoid when, every time he looked up to search Dad’s expression, his eyes were either on his face or elsewhere in the room. Maybe the guy really didn’t have any weird intentions, here.

 

 

Christian’s head titled up as he became aware he was being touched. He was frowning at first, but then he progressively relaxed when he saw that it was Bart. When Bart sat back and smiled weakly at him in search of reassurance that he had yet to ever got from the man, Christian’s frown returned. Bart was too beautiful; too trusting.

 

 

Dad made a high-pitched strangled noise and straitened his posture, but his air of confidence didn’t fade even as Christian aggressively groped him to investigate if he was really keeping his mind off of what belonged to Christian.

 

 

 “H-hey, there now, kiddo!” Christian must have been satisfied with whatever he found, because he sank back down a few inches and relaxed as Dad held onto his arm to keep him from pulling against the needle.

 

 

“Okay, sport.” Dad handed Bart a towel after some time of them soaking in the water. “Pull on your clothes and then hurry back to where he can see you when I move him to take him out.”

 

 

Bart helped him dry the priest and dress him. For some reason, Dad’s clothes were completely dry. Come to think of it, they had never soaked up any water even while they were in the tub.

 

 

Bart was afraid that he might leave him there alone with Christian, so he was relieved when Dad only slid in behind the serial killer to spoon him after putting him in the bed.

 

 

It was three days before Christian was finally able to drift off to sleep significantly enough for it to be considered a nap. Christian glanced over the top of his drawing book at the sound of unfamiliar, deep, steady breathing.

 

 

Bart looked to the tray piled with cocaine that Christian had yet to return to. “Why hasn’t he taken anymore? Are you stopping him from it?”

 

 

“No, kiddo. This is just one of those rare...” He looked to the floor blankly for several seconds as if lost in a thousand memories of timelines that had gone slightly different. “ _Very_ rare instances where someone traumatizes themselves out of one fix while finding another, less deadly, fix to replace it with. We’ve got a potential here for a fairly happy ending.”

 

 

“Why is it so important to you?” Bart narrowed his eyes. No matter what Dad said to him, he suspected that this was a typical case of a deity feeling disproportionate love and favoritism for a rebellious creature that continued to hurt and entertain them.

 

 

“I care about all of my children, kiddo! And also, I can only get him out of an eternity of suffering in damnation of timeout if I can anchor his main soul somewhere that he doesn’t kill a few of my counterpart’s favorites. That’s you and Smith, kiddo. Don’t you feel important?”

 

 

“Oh. Um, yes? So, you stopped him from...from k-killing me, then?”

 

 

Dad’s eyes went distant. “He realizes that, now. That’s why he’s not touching the drugs.” He unceremoniously picked up a bucket next to his chair and walked over by the wall on Christian’s side of the bed. He looked down to the sweating, trembling body for eight seconds, and then he didn’t even flinch when Christian bolted upright screaming. Bart fell off the bed as Christian stood on the mattress, leapt off the bed, and ran at the wall, ramming into it in his confusion before crumbling to the floor.

 

 

“Fuck!” Christian pulled himself up to his knees and clenched against the mattress as his paranoid eyes scanned the room. Bart peeked over the edge of the bed at him, and Christian breathed heavily as his shoulders progressively relaxed. He blinked a few times as all the color drained from his face. Dad stepped forward and lowered the bucket as Christian turned to violently throw up. When he finally finished and collapsed unconscious on the floor, Dad lifted him back onto the bed.

 

 

“Let’s order some food, shall we?” Dad offered up, and it seemed to work to bring Bart up from beside the bed.

 

 

“O-okay.” He wasn’t sure what to do when Christian’s eyes weren’t forever on him. He felt lost without the stare he had formerly thought was only terrifying. “S-sure.”

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

A week later, Dad was still with them. Bart turned away from the canvas on the easel that Steve had brought him and rubbed at a patch of dried burnt umber paint across his hand. “I think I will shower now, if that is all right with you?”

 

 

Dad’s nose was in a book, but Bart couldn’t read the unfamiliar, rather Lovecraftian-looking, language on the cover. “Sure, sport. You can do whatever you’d like. You’re a grown man, and I’m proud of you.”

 

 

Bart shifted uneasily as he realized the traumas he had gone through had effectively left him searching for the permission of others before he made any move. He looked towards Christian’s fitfully sleeping form and wished he would tell him what to do so he didn’t have to wonder if he was doing something wrong. The priest’s arms were irritated from where he’d been clawing against his itching skin in withdrawal.

 

 

Bart moved toward the bathroom but paused when Dad spoke. “You should just go along with whatever he does, unless it scares you too much. I won’t come when you first call out, but if you continue, I will. It’s alright. I’ll be there when it counts.”

 

 

Bart didn’t quite understand what he was talking about, but he’d noticed over the last week or so that Dad tended to mix up his realities sometimes. He brushed it off to this, and he closed the bathroom door as he reminded himself that he was goddamn allowed to close it! He considered locking it, but then remembered for the hundredth time that the latch was broken because Christian had kicked the door open. He sighed in agitation as he stepped out of his clothes.

 

 

Christian’s head lifted from the pillow and a dark cloud crossed his entire being.

 

 

Dad was calm as he flipped the page of his book without looking to the priest. “He’s only in the shower, sport.” He didn’t react when Christian’s fists tangled against the sheets before he aggressively pushed himself to his feet. The priest pointed at him threateningly as he glared at him through dark-ringed eyes and slowly backed toward the bathroom door. Dad still didn’t look at him, but somehow seemed to know what he was doing just the same. “I am not stopping you, kiddo.”

 

 

Bart told himself it was silly to be afraid to rinse his face under the stream of water. Christian wasn’t even in there. He had barely begun to wash shampoo down along his eyes when he heard movement in the room. “D-dad?” He desperately scrubbed the soap away just in time to feel a crushing grip from behind holding him in place beneath the spray. “HELP!” He cried as a hand clamped roughly over his mouth and made it hard to breath around the water rushing down his nose.

 

 

He wasn’t sure whether to relax or keep screaming when he heard Christian snarl right against his ear. “Don’t you fucking dare call for anyone but me to save you. I decide what happens to you. Bart.” He released Bart’s mouth and his fingers curled around his throat instead. He squeezed gently as he dropped his lips to the artist’s shoulder and kissed along his skin almost lovingly. He opened his mouth to suck some of the water from against his neck.

 

 

The priest swallowed several times and Bart shuddered when he realized Christian really was thirsty and was unapologetically using his body to get a drink. When he returned to making out with his skin, Bart’s head fell back to further expose his throat to him.

 

 

“You didn’t leave.” Christian noted as his other hand ghosted up Bart’s stomach to feather his fingers against his nipple. He gave one more careful squeeze against his throat before he released his neck to trail his hand down his body. He hummed when he reached between his legs and found that the artist had hardened at his attention.

 

 

“I do not want to leave.” Bart was breathless as he wriggled uncontrollably under Christian’s hands. “Christian...” His senses were all distorted when he wasn’t able to open his eyes for so long in the spray of water. His hands searched for something to brace himself against for balance, and they wound up clenching against Christian’s body behind him. “Why would I want to leave my husband?”

 

 

Christian’s mouth was open against his skin when Bart threw in the last question, and the artist squeaked when Christian bit down in shock. An unguarded moan escaped the priest as Bart’s words bounced around in his skull, throwing him off guard and pleasing him enough to lift his mood even while suffering through fucking cocaine withdrawal.

 

 

Christian’s fist wrapped around the artist’s length, and Bart’s legs wobbled dangerously. Christian tore his other hand away and hastily reached for the soap. Bart couldn’t see what was happening, so he didn’t expect it when Christian’s hands left him only to return a few seconds later overwhelmingly slick as they moved against him.

 

 

“C-Christian? Should you be doing this whilst you are recovering from...oh! God...ohgodohgodohgod...”

 

 

Christian had the suspicion that Bart could probably come to him touching his chest and sucking on his neck alone, and he made a mental note to investigate the subject at a later time. Right now, however, the priest had allowed himself to get too worked up to ignore it. He turned with the artist and shoved him face-first against the cool tiles. Bart’s hands scrambled against the wall in confusion before he cried out when Christian pumped his hips against his backside.

 

 

 

“C-C-C-Christian?” Bart felt the wave of desire ripple down Christian’s body in the form of a violent shudder as his cock prodded against the artist’s soft skin. Bart’s arms instinctively pulled into his chest as he sought to make himself smaller, but he was too afraid struggle or protest.

 

 

Christian’s observant eyes drank in his submission, and he considered seeing just how long Bart would be able to hold himself together before he started begging him not to hurt him. Instead, however, he found himself comforting him. “Trust me.”

 

 

It was hard for Bart to hear any sincerity in the tone while Christian was slathering soap all over his ass and holding his palm against his back to keep him in place like he expected him to run from whatever he was planning. His cheek was pressed against the tile, and he clenched his eyes shut as he repeated the priest’s name. Christian lined himself up with his cleft and began thrusting against him.

 

 

Bart carefully opened his eyes, but Christian wasn’t detoured by his air of offense when he whined at him incredulously. “Christian! Y-you are really going to...to...rut against me like a dog?”

 

 

Christian’s growl vibrated down the back of his neck. Goddamn, he loved that smart fucking mouth. “Yeah. Unless you want me to rut in you like a man.”

 

 

Bart made a noise that was lost somewhere between outrage, terror, and arousal. “G-god...Christian! You are f-filthy!”

 

 

“Gonna make you filthy.” Christian tucked his arm between Bart and the wall, and the artist completely forgot what had appalled him as the slick fingers stroked him insistently. “Now come for me before you kill me.”

 

 

“Oh, god! Christian...oh, god!” Bart wasn’t sure if it was a threat or a seduction, but the thought of Christian taking him, and the admission that the artist was affecting him so greatly, shot right to his cock. He cried out helplessly as he came.

 

 

Christian felt him going off in his hand. The priest’s mouth fell open against his shoulder as Bart’s hips jerked back against him. “Fuck! Fuck, baby! Just like that...” Bart didn’t realize he was unconsciously obeying him and continuing to pulse back against him until Christian was already coming to it.

 

 

Bart gasped for breath against the tiles until he realized Christian was having trouble breathing. “Christian? Maybe we should go sit down?” Christian pressed him harder against the wall as if he was threatening to run away. “W-what are we doing now?” Bart relaxed when the priest planted a simple kiss to his neck to let him know he was still in his right mind. Or, at least, in as right a mind as Christian could be. Bart’s voice was dreamy and eccentric. “Are we standing in the gentle flow of the water as it washes away all of our sins?”

 

 

_Holy fucking god, that fucking drama._ Christian whirled him around and captured his mouth in a desperate kiss. He framed his face with shaking hands as he pulled back to look at him. “I don’t think. There’s enough water. In Riftdale to. Wash away. My.” He had to stop to breath, and one of his hands clutched at his chest. “Sins. But I don’t want to. Forget you.” His forehead fell to Bart’s shoulder. “So I just have to. Live with them.”

 

 

His knees began to buckle, but Bart’s attention whipped up to the silhouette behind the glass as Dad rolled the door aside to catch him as Christian fell. “Wow. I’m impressed, kiddo!” He looked up to Bart’s face unflinching. “He’s decided not to accept the memory culling.”

 

 

“Th-the what now?” Bart whipped a towel over his body.

 

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Dad smiled as he dragged Christian through the bathroom. “Let’s just get him in the bed and get him some air. You kids and your dependence on oxygen!”

 

 

Christian tried a little harder to contain himself for the next week. He was doing well enough that Dad was even comfortable with walking away from them to see to other matters for long stints of time.

 

 

Christian’s mind was soon becoming clear enough for him to continuously fidget restlessly. The sedatives worked for a time to make him not care about the world around him, but the less he needed them, the more his eyes locked on Bart as the artist made videos for his fans and worked with various media to express his emotions through art. It didn’t help Christian’s ability to refrain from robbing a bank or finding someone to piss him off so he could murder them when everything the artist did seemed to make his mind hit the gutter. He wasn’t sure how long he should avoid getting worked up, but it was impossible to accomplish a celibate mind frame when Bart kept wafting his hands around like that and talking down his nose like he was uppity fucking royalty. God, he wanted to dirty up that face while Bart was on his knees giving him a shocked expression like he didn’t want him unloading his-

 

 

“Are you alright? You are scowling at me. Well, I mean to say, scowling deeper than usual.” Bart sat on the bed next to the priest.

 

 

Christian’s voice was gruff. “Take off your clothes.”

 

 

Bart’s eyebrows shot up and he coughed like he was suddenly surprised to hear such a thing directed at him. “Christian! You need to take it easy. You can’t-”

 

 

“I’m fine.” Christian’s eyes shifted to the side as Dad materialized out of thin air next to the bedside table. He sat a glass of water and a sedative on the table and then blinked out of sight again. Christian sighed aggressively when Bart turned back to look at him as if to say I told you so. “No. Really. I’m fine. My heart hasn’t tried to explode in probably two days.”

 

 

Bart tilted his head as if Christian was an unruly child. “Just for a little longer. You should avoid doing...um...all that work.”

 

 

“So I won’t do all the work, then. You do the work.” Christian rolled onto his back and propped his hands behind his head before nodding down at his body. He pretended he didn’t love the way Bart turned his head away from his obvious erection as if it was a violent car crash he couldn’t bear to watch. “Go on. Get us naked. Do a little dance while you throw your clothes at me. Fuck yourself open with some lube down there at the foot of the bed with your ass up in the air where I can watch. Climb on my dick and ride me like your life depends on it, because it does.”

 

 

The priest was a little worried that Bart’s heart was now in danger of failing. He ultimately chose to ignore the last threat. “I would do n-no such th-thing!”

 

 

“Oh yeah? Then what would you do?”

 

 

“I...I...I...” He swallowed heavily as he worried his hands. He was flustered by Christian’s manipulation that Bart had somehow insinuated that he’d meant he had another plan in mind.

 

 

“I knew it. You do want to do something to me. What do you want, baby? Tell me those disgusting fantasies in that pretty little had of y-” Christian’s fist slammed against the mattress in frustration when Dad blinked back into sight and moved the oxygen tank closer to the bed. “I’m fine!” He sat up and jammed a finger at Bart. The artist flinched before he assured himself it wasn’t a gun. “You know, the longer you put this off, the worse things I’m gonna do to you when it finally happens!” Bart’s eyes were scared now, and Christian’s next sigh was less intimidating as he clutched his aching head. “Fuck. Alright. Let’s...let’s go get something to eat. In public. Move around a little at least.”

 

 

“That sounds great, kiddos!” Bart yelped and fell off the bed when he’d forgotten Dad was there. Dad laughed heartily. “Aaaand you need therapy!”

 

 

“Who doesn’t?” Christian grumbled as he rummaged for his combat boots and swallowed the sedative. There was only a slight tremor in his hand as he chased it with the water.

 

 

Steve joined them at a table in the casino cafeteria. Christian was irritated that there wasn’t a booth available, because he was groggy and couldn’t shake the instinct that he needed to box Bart in to keep him from running away. He managed not to wave his gun at any of his customers to demand they abandon their booth, however, and Steve saw this as a major improvement.

 

 

Bart didn’t realize that Dad really meant to join them, so when he disappeared in the room before belatedly popping up next to the table, he screamed and fell out of his chair. Christian accepted this as normal and natural behavior around him, but Steve was highly sympathetic now that he had seen Bart enough times to become invested in the story of his outcome within his mind.

 

 

Dad drew Christian’s attention. “Well, sport! I’ve pulled some strings and done some leg work. It looks like, even though you can’t forget the past, you won’t have to face any legal consequences.” If only every god-dad was loving enough to help their children literally get away with mass murder and an endless list of no telling what other crimes the con artist had been up to.

 

 

“Halle-fucking-lujah.” Christian glared at him.

 

 

“Hey, now, kiddo. This is a pretty darn good version of happily ever after, if you’ve seen what I’ve seen. You’ve just got to learn to trust again, and to curb your temper, is all. So, no more killing, or you might mess with this timeline. Okay?” He tilted his head as he waited for an assurance he already knew wouldn’t come. Christian only stared at him, so he confirmed it for himself. “Okay, then!”

 

 

A waiter set down a new glass next to Christian, but when he approached them from behind the artist, Bart yelped and knocked over his own drink.

 

 

Steve’s brows rose. “Christian? I’m, uh, pretty sure your husband has PTSD.”

 

 

Christian’s pupils visibly dilated as his eyes landed on Bart at the reminder that he was his husband.

 

 

Steve rested his hand on Bart’s shoulder to reassure him as the artist laughed in embarrassment and tried to brush the situation away while helping the waiter clean up the mess. Christian’s attention shifted dangerously to Steve’s hand and lingered there for the few short seconds it took him to cease the innocent gesture.

 

 

The priest anxiously clawed at his itchy arm and tried to push away the distant guilt that was accusing his soul that it was his fault Bart had been through so much. The room became darker as the sedative rippled across his brain, and then without warning his head fell heavily to the table.

 

 

When he next awoke, he blinked rapidly as Bart’s half-empty glass of milk came into focus. He could hear Dad and Steve’s voices, but he was more concerned with the fact that Bart wasn’t where he’d last seen him.

 

 

Christian’s lips weren’t fully working yet as he mumbled, “Where is he?” A quick scan of the few feet around them alerted him that he wasn’t close enough. He was wide awake then. “The fuck is he?!” His gun was aimed between Steve’s eyes before the man even realized Christian was consciously back with them.

 

 

“HOLY SHIT!” Steve raised his arms. “Calm down-”

 

 

“MY HOSTAGE, ASSHOLE!”

 

 

Dad’s voice was soothing. “Now, Christian. Steve is your friend, remember? Put the gun down. We can trust friends to be on our side, right?”

 

 

Christian’s brows furrowed as he struggled inwardly. He whined as he clicked the safety and lowered the gun. “Where is he?”

 

 

Steve pointed over his shoulder and Christian whirled around. “It’s okay. He’s right over there in the arcade playing a game.” Christian panicked as he realized he’d taken his eyes off a guy who he’d just had a gun to and snapped his face back to him. Steve patiently arched a brow, so Christian turned back to watch the artist across the room. He was so far away. He could have made a run for it. He could have called the police. He could have done anything without Christian knowing his every move. Christian took a breath to steady himself.

 

 

“See? I didn’t take my eyes off him.”

 

 

Christian stiffened. “Well keep your fucking eyes off of him!”

 

 

Steve sighed in exasperation. “Well which is it? You want me to keep an eye on him for you when you’re out of it, or not look at him at all?”

 

 

“I..I don’t fucking know, alright!” Christian juggled the gun as he rubbed his hands along his face. He moved to Bart’s seat so that he could watch the artist, and then he greedily shoved his beer to his lips. It was soda. He spit it out. “The fuck?”

 

 

“You might not want to have more than one or two beers with those sedatives.” Dad explained before looking off to the side and proclaiming some kind of public service announcement to his ‘kids’. “When we ordered refills, we ordered you a soda, champ!”

 

 

“Yeah. Whatever.” Christian pinched his forehead before turning his attention back to Bart. There was someone talking to him. Christian’s fist clenched hard enough to snap the handle off his drink.

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

The handsome gentleman laughed heartily at Bart’s joke with one hand on his stomach and the other on Bart’s shoulder. “Oh, my god! You are the clever one!”

 

 

There was a distinct metallic noise that left the man no question to what he was now feeling pressed against the side of his head.

 

 

“Hands off, asshole.” Christian growled in annoyance when Steve caught up with him.

 

 

“Dude come on! Don’t kill the customers! Doooon’t!” Steve’s hands trembled as he tried to calm the priest but only managed to make him press the barrel harder against the man’s head. Steve cursed his luck that, as soon as they’d lost control of Christian, Dad had stood and looked off into space before saying he must leave and disappearing.

 

 

“Christian! You stop that right now! Leave that man alone!” Bart straightened to look down his nose at him, but he dropped a few inches when Christian turned his dark attention to him. He really looked worse for wear after a couple weeks of withdrawal. His sober frown held a heavier bite as his wolfish eyes pinned the artist in place making him feel so much smaller.

 

 

Christian’s lip curled and revealed clenched teeth. “Don’t you want to see what the inside of your boyfriend’s head looks like?”

 

 

“Christian! He is most certainly not my boyfriend! I only met him just now! And I am a married man, in case you forgot! Now...now you put that gun down!”

 

 

“Or else what?” Christian was eager to play this game. He felt a wanting heat tug at his lungs as Bart shifted his weight from one foot to the other in helpless trepidation.

 

 

Bart’s eyes searched the air in front of Christian’s knees as if he’d find proper negotiating skills floating there. “Or else...I’ll...I’ll be upset!”

 

 

“And?” When Bart’s shoulders rose higher and his hands flew together to nervously worry his fingers, Christian offered to help him out. “Go on. You were doing good. Now you just gotta add an actual threat to your...threat. What will you do if I don’t stop?” He uncocked the gun just so he could do it again for show.

 

 

“No! Christian, you can’t do that anymore so we can...we can...be safe!”

 

 

Christian turned back to the man and returned the barrel to his head. The guy looked like he had retreated to a happy place inside his head, so he didn’t react. Steve hissed and pulled out his phone so that his thumb could hover over the speed dial to cleanup if he suddenly found himself responsible for keeping Christian’s fresh record clear.

 

 

“Don’t you dare or I’ll...I’ll leave!” It wasn’t the sanest thing to say to an insecure psychopath. Luckily for him, Christian didn’t seem in a mood to believe him, though whether it was because he believed in Bart’s feelings for him or whether he just didn’t have confidence in Bart’s ability to actually escape him, it wasn’t clear.

 

 

Christian’s head rolled to look at him incredulously. “Will you now?”

 

 

Bart looked down to his feet and whispered, “No.”

 

 

“I think you will.”

 

 

Bart’s head whipped up to search his eyes as Christian dropped his arm to his side. “Christian?”

 

 

“Come here.”

 

 

“I...I...I don’t want to.” The artist began walking backwards as Christian allowed the terrorized stranger to run away and instead focused completely on Bart. “Are y-you angry with me, Christian?”

 

 

“No. Come to me.”

 

 

Bart whined as he bumped into the game he’d been playing and then moved around it. “You c-can’t be chasing me around right now, Christian. Y-you’ll hurt yourself.”

 

 

“I’m fine. Maybe you should worry more about yourself.”

 

 

Steve clucked his tongue. “He’s gonna run. Yep. There he goes. I’ll head him off that way.” He huffed as he adjusted to whatever Christian threw at him.

 

 

Christian had the luxury of simply speed walking like a serial killer from a movie since he knew Steve was going to block the door that was now in front of Bart’s line of sight. Christian relaxed when Steve came through for him and leapt between Bart and the exit causing Bart to skid along the ground as he scrambled to change directions.

 

 

The artist burst into tears when he climbed to his feet and realized Christian was so much closer than he’d expected. He was cornered. Bart looked around frantically before prying a board away from the entrance tube of the adult gym that had been put on hold. Steve cursed when Bart was actually able to accomplish the task because he had only roughly duct-taped the board instead of nailing it.

 

 

“He’s got nowhere else to go now. The entrance and exit are both right here.” Steve pulled up a chair as Christian took a few steps back to scan the plastic windows along the maze of tubes.

 

 

“Did you say there was something wrong with the ball pit?” Christian stuffed his gun away and crossed his arms as his eyes mapped out where Bart was likely to go given his current direction. He stepped over to the mesh ball pit container to wait for the inevitable. The top of the balls stopped about a few inches below his chin. He didn’t see what the big deal should be about getting stuck in it.

 

 

“Yeah. We dug down into the floor to put a...kind of...like...uh...a trampoline thing beneath it, but the idiots dug down way too far.” Ah. It was much deeper, then. “Then we ordered more goddamn balls than we needed, and then the drop-off is so high-”

 

 

Bart screamed bloody murder when his hands suddenly had no ground beneath them, and he tumbled headlong into the pit. “CHRISTIAN!”

 

 

“Really?” The priest huffed in disbelief.

 

 

“CHRISTIAN I’M SORRY! PLEASE I’M SORRY!”

 

 

“Uh huh. I just fucking bet you are.” Christian pressed his tongue against his cheek and savored the beautiful, wonderful, heart-wrenching, cock-teasing screams that Bart unleashed on his ears as if he couldn’t hear the priest speaking from only a few feet away.

 

 

“OH GOD I CAN’T BREATHE!”

 

 

“Can he breathe?” Christian arched a brow.

 

 

“Yeah. He can breathe.”

 

 

“I CAN’T BREATHE! I DON’T WANT TO DIE! CHRISTIAN!”

 

 

Steve propped his feet on the top of the entrance tube. “You could just climb over the top if you don’t want to crawl through the tube.” He dutifully ignored the way Christian’s eyes were rolling back as the artist kept screaming his name and thrashing theatrically.

 

 

Bart was sobbing as he tried to decide which direction was up. He seemed to only be managing to claw himself deeper. If he hadn’t been panicking so hard, he might have noticed his wedding band tapping against his nose and used that as a focal point to find which way was up or down. “WHAT KIND OF HELLISH TORTURE PALACE IS THIS?!” He finally stopped screaming long enough to hear Christian’s voice.

 

 

“Just come towards the sound of my voice.”

 

 

“I C-CAN’T TELL WHICH WAY YOU ARE! I’M GOING TO DIE IN HERE! I’M GOING TO STARVE TO DEATH!” He hiccupped into more desperate sobs when it sounded like Christian actually snorted humorously about his slow impending death.

 

 

Christian grunted. “Go ahead and go back to your lunch, Steve. Don’t sit around and listen to this.”

 

 

“CHRISTIAN! DON’T LEAVE ME! PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE!” Bart cried harder when it became clear Steve was doing as Christian said and leaving.

 

 

“Yeah, but don’t kill him in there, Christian. We’d never get the blood off all those goddamn balls.”

 

 

Bart whimpered into silence as he finally remembered he’d been running from Christian in the first place. He tried to think clearly, but the blood was running to his head. Surely, he would hear Christian clomping through the tubes long before he reached him to hurt him, though, right? “C-Christian?”

 

 

“Fucks sake.” The priest’s voice seemed to have moved positions as he grunted. “What?”

 

 

“I’m scared.”

 

 

“Yeah. That’s kind of obvious, sweetheart.”

 

 

There was a violent vibration as the entire pit rumbled around him. “CHRISTIAN! THERE’S SOMETHING IN HERE! OH GOD THERE’S SOMETHING IN HERE I’M GOING TO DIE!” He bawled and kicked as he felt something patting along his body before a horrific tentacle monster from one of Dad’s alternate universes hooked a slimy limb around his waist and pulled him upright. Or at least, that’s what he imagined until Christian was pulling him to straddle him and muttering against his ear as he held him close to prevent him from clawing at him.

 

 

“I’ve got you. Just breath and-” Christian tensed drastically when Bart’s arms clamped around him. The artist began writhing as close to him as possible. Once Christian overcame the shock of Bart moving towards him instead of away, he decided it was as good a time as any to investigate if Bart was sensitive enough to come all over himself if he teased him enough.

 

 

“D-don’t be mad at me.” Bart panted as he clung to him. “Don’t hurt me, please.” He wriggled his face through the colorful sea until he could nuzzle into Christian’s neck to hide from all his fears.

 

 

The priest groaned at the warm air as Bart’s lips moved against his skin while he continued to plead with him. He knit his fingers into Bart’s hair and wrenched his head back. Bart went pliant as some instinct told him it was useless and possibly more dangerous for him to fight him. He could almost see a break in the colorful balls overhead as he tried to find something to focus on that wasn’t the man in his arms killing him.

 

 

Christian’s lips pressed several sweet and simple kisses against the exposed skin before he found the bottom of Bart’s shirt and pushed it up all the way to his armpits. Bart tried not to question it, because he still wasn’t completely confident Christian wasn’t going through some complex ritual of gutting him. He had never realized how utterly vulnerable a human side could be until he felt Christian’s palm rest above his hip before sliding upwards towards his ribs. His hand was scorching hot in comparison to the cold plastic balls now falling against his bare skin.

 

 

Christian moved his lips to the artist’s ear. “I’m going to fuck you later tonight. You’d better get used to that thought.” His fingers fanned across Bart’s nipple, and the artist’s hips pulsed forward. Christian wasn’t about to end the contact there, however, and he repeated the method many times as he continued. “I’m going to work you slow while you’re still holding up that bullshit facade that you don’t want to feel me take you. I’m not going to give it to you until you’re shaking and crying and begging me to fill you up.”

 

 

Christian opened his mouth against Bart’s throat so that he could feel the vibrations of all those adorable little mewls against his tongue. The wet heat caused Bart to start thrusting, and Christian pulled him closer so that he would be brushing against something solid. Bart gasped as if he wasn’t the one who had just pressed his own crotch against another person. Bart defied him, however, and immediately commanded his hips to lean back a few inches away.

 

 

“Then I’m going to slide my cock so far into your warm fucking body, baby. I’m going to push so deep into you...” He rolled the artist’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and he had to stop talking for a moment just to enjoy the desperate keening noises that Bart had been reduced to as words failed him. Christian latched onto his neck and sucked until Bart’s fingers were hooked in his shirt enough to pull the fabric halfway up his torso.

 

 

Bart’s voice was weak as he whispered between the small sounds escaping his throat at a steady pace. “Christian...Christian...I can’t...please...people will...hear me...”

 

 

“Too late to stop now. You really want me to leave you like this? So close?” Christian wouldn’t have listened to him even if Bart had the state of mind to tell him to stop. Bart only sobbed helplessly, however, and Christian went on. “And when you’re good and ready, I’m going to pound my dick so hard into your tight little hole, Bart, I swear to god I’m going to fuck you so goddamn hard you’re going to forget we were ever two people to begin with...”

 

 

“C-C-C-Christian! H-holy sh-shit! Oh, god! F-fuck!” And there is was. He was dropping his manners.

 

 

Christian took mercy on him, then, and forced Bart’s hips against him so that his unconscious thrusting was far more fruitful. Christian’s eyes rolled back as he fought to stay on task despite the euphoric friction.

 

 

“I can’t! I can’t! Christian! Oh, dear god! I can’t-”

 

 

Christian lost his battle of teasing him and slammed his hands against Bart’s hips to encourage him forward. “I’m going to force-fuck the come right out of you, and then I’m going to make such a filthy fucking mess of your insides. You’re going to be so fucking full and fuck! Maybe I’ll just have you right here-” One hand landed on the fastenings of Bart’s pants and the threat worked to push him over the edge. Christian’s grip returned to his hips as he guided them both through their release. “Fuck, baby, fffffuck!”

 

 

Bart’s entire body was convulsing when he cried out loud enough for the sound to travel at least as far as the arcade. Christian’s vision exploded into black splotches as he followed him into completion. It took the priest a few minutes of gasping to realize Bart was trying to speak.

 

 

“O-okay...okay...okay...” The artist panted.

 

 

“Okay, what?” Christian wriggled to lean back and pulled Bart to drape against him. The ball pit of death was actually pretty comfortable if you weren’t actively trying to escape its evil clutches.

 

 

Bart grew too embarrassed to speak his thoughts as he came down from the high of his orgasm. He felt his necklace moving gently, and he discretely batted at some of the balls to find that Christian was unconsciously playing with his wedding band.

 

 

“What are you doing down there?” Christian grumbled, uncomfortable that he couldn’t obsess over the artist’s every subtle move.

 

 

“N-nothing. I’m only trying to get some of these monstrosities out of my face, but they taunt me.” Bart cleared his throat when the priest’s chest vibrated an acknowledgement of his woes. “Christian? M-maybe you could...teach me...about some of the concepts you keep...mentioning.”

 

 

It took Christian a moment to ask himself if Bart was referring to sex. “Are you talking about me making you like me fucking you?” Christian waited, but Bart didn’t answer him. “Holy shit, you fucking are. And you’re fucking saying it all like you want me to teach you shit like you just stepped out of a goddamn anime porn. Fuck I’m going to-”

 

 

“Christian!” Bart slapped at hands that were coming from directions he couldn’t predict and squeaked repeatedly as he failed to protect himself properly. “Not right now! Not here! Christian! NOT HERE!”

 

 

He wasn’t surprised when Christian aggressively held him place to kiss him while the priest touched himself, but he was still terrified and strangely flattered. He wondered if it had been long enough for him to confirm the priest’s sexual appetite really hadn’t been caused by the drugs, or if some version of cocaine overdose or withdrawal was still on his list of potential factors to blame.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Bart’s naked legs trembled as Christian watched him from the foot of the bed. The priest’s thumb kept distractedly popping and returning the cap of the lube in his hand as he waited for Bart to answer him. He had just finished giving a quick spiel about how Bart’s body works and what he should do to make this easier on himself. Bart’s mouth was squared in a combination of disgust and terror as he stared at him with wide eyes.

 

 

“Got it?”

 

 

Bart nodded weakly. “Christian. I’m s-scared.”

 

 

“I don’t mind.” Christian’s mouth twitched when Bart whimpered. “You want me to chase you through the building first? You seem to like that.”

 

 

“N-no. It is only...you will be gentle with me, right?”

 

 

Christian moaned and his fingers clenched against the lubricant enough for a spray to glop down his fingers. “Of course, I will.”

 

 

“B-but earlier you did say that...that you were going to...to...”

 

 

“That I was going to pound my dick so hard into your tight little hole that I’d force-fuck the come right out of you?”

 

 

Bart choked, and Christian attentively slid a foot or two to the side in the direction Bart’s eyes darted as he considered diving for his clothes.

 

 

“Look. I know what I said, baby, but what I meant to say was that I’m going to take my time making careful, passionate love to you.” If only Christian could make his tone sound...not sarcastic. He rubbed his clean palm against his nose just to make sure he wasn’t bleeding when Bart’s eyes continued to search him as if he was afraid.

 

 

“Y-you’re smooth-talking me?” Of course, he was. Christian was a con man after all, and a good one at that. His hostage was, arguably by his own choice, naked in his bed wearing his wedding ring around his neck while Christian hadn’t a care in the world about paying for any of his past crimes of arson, or robbery, or mass murder, or-

 

 

“Sweetheart. If I was going to lose my shit and rape the life out of you, wouldn’t Dad have shown up by now moving the oxygen tank around or something?”

 

 

Bart visibly relaxed. “Well, I suppose that is true.”

 

 

“That reminds me,” Christian grumbled as he turned around to the table behind him where Dad had left a sedative and a glass of water. He had barely gulped down the dose when he had to hop toward the side of the bed to prevent Bart from running. “Go back. Now, Bart.”

 

 

Bart’s limbs quaked as he did what was he was told and settled back onto the bed. “Christian? H-have you ever...um...had this done to you?”

 

 

“Sure, I fucking have.”

 

 

“Really?”

 

 

“Yeah.” Christian said this like it should be obvious. “You have to take it before you know how to give it.”

 

 

“Oh. Oh, my.”

 

 

“Why? You want to fuck me or something?”

 

 

Bart bristled as if he’d insulted him. “No! Of course not!”

 

 

“You sure? Because for a minute there it looked like you wanted to-”

 

 

“No!” Bart wouldn’t be able to move in these situations at all if Christian wasn’t directing him on what to do.

 

 

“Then say what you really want, Bart. Say you want to bottom to me.” God, he loved how the artist kept sneaking glances at is cock before defiantly looking away as if he was repulsed by what he was seeing.

 

 

“I...” Bart closed his eyes before feeling a spark of bravery because of the way Christian was obviously hanging on his words when he had actually started to speak. The priest’s lids had gone heavy and his lips parted. Bart’s face heated as he forced himself to maintain eye contact. “I w-want to...to bottom to you, Christian.” One of Bart’s legs fell open ever so slightly in invitation, but he jolted back and clenched his eyes shut when Christian mouthed a curse and slammed his hands against the mattress to climb after him.

 

 

“Oh god!” Bart forced his eyes open to see that Christian had slowed in his pursuit of him like he was approaching a scared animal. Bart sank down as Christian crawled over top of him. He shivered as Christian settled in between his thighs and dragged their bodies together. The priest inhaled against his neck, and Bart’s head fell back before he finally collapsed from where he’d been propped on his elbows.

 

 

“Are you...going to...n-now?” The artist vibrated with nervous excitement as he consciously forced his legs to part wider to him. Christian hummed low in response to the gesture and rutted against him more insistently as he temporarily lost himself.

 

 

He slowed the steady rocking and sucked at Bart’s neck. “I don’t know. Are you begging for my cock yet?” When Bart didn’t answer, he comforted him. “I’m not going to surprise you with it, baby. You’ll know, and you’ll want me before I do.” He began to plant sloppy, open-mouth kisses down the artist’s body, looking up at him as he worked his way down between his legs.

 

 

Bart’s back came off the bed as he arched to the warmth lapping against his length. He was whispering a steady chant of Christian’s name, and the priest’s throat vibrated in approval as he tightened his lips around the head of his cock before pressing down around him. Bart was already writhing beneath his attention, and he didn’t seem to notice when Christian raked his fingernails along the sensitive skin underneath his upper thighs. The sensation caused Bart to push his legs up.

 

 

The artist’s hips lifted in seek of Christian’s mouth when he pulled off of him. Christian took the opportunity to tuck a hand under Bart’s body to squeeze his backside. He continued greedily massaging his cheeks even as Bart made a feeble attempt to protest as if he wasn’t rocking more urgently as Christian groped him. Maybe he was upset because Christian still had lube all over his hand and down his wrist from where he’d unintentionally strangled the bottle a few moments before.

 

 

When Christian was reminded of this, he gathered plenty of the liquid and generously slathered it along the artist’s cleft. His fingers pressed lightly against his opening throughout the motion, but he didn’t circle teasingly around the ring until several strokes later. He prodded the pad of his finger against him, pulling back and circling each time Bart sucked in a breath and returning his tongue to his length to distract him. Christian continued the maddening torment until Bart was thoroughly seduced with curiosity.

 

 

“J-just d-do it already-HAH!” Bart had no idea that Christian was purposefully dragging the eagerness out of him. His hands clenched in the sheets and his head tilted from side to side as Christian deep-throated him while sliding a slick finger into him knuckle-deep. He didn’t give him much time to adjust before he crooked his finger like he was searching for something inside him.

 

 

“OH JESUS GOD CHRISTIAN! FUCK!” He pushed down against the intrusion and then bucked up into Christian’s mouth. “MORE! PLEASE, GOD, MORE!”

 

 

Christian’s eyebrows shot up high on his forehead. He didn’t expect that yet. He tore his mouth away and asked for confirmation through a raspy voice. “W-which...uh...s-side? Front or back?”

 

 

“ALL OF IT PLEASE CHRISTIAN EVERYTHING!” Bart’s hands lifted over his head when Christian lowered his mouth back down around him while slowly working another finger inside him. Christian could feel the artist’s prostate tensing, and he pulled his mouth away to keep him from finishing too soon. Bart’s body melted back into a pliant heap as he surrendered to him completely. “Oh god, Christian, I want it...”

 

 

Christian choked. “You better watch that mouth, sweetheart, or you’re going to get it.”

 

 

Bart made a small noise of fright before he found his voice. “Okay. Please. Pleeease! Just t-take me. Christian. Take me...” His breath escaped him in one long huff when he suddenly found Christian’s body over him. The priest’s movements were suddenly wild as he pumped their lower halves together to keep Bart’s head swimming while he fumbled clumsily with the lubricant.

 

 

Bart almost tensed when Christian lifted to slather lube all over his length, but then Christian was ordering him to relax and prodding against his entrance without pushing in. The priest closed his eyes to avoid seeing Bart’s flushed, wanting features as he commanded himself to make short, shallow pulses against his opening.

 

 

“Christian...I need...I need it! Please, fuck, please I need you inside me right now! I can’t take it!” His fingers clamped onto Christians shoulders as the priest groaned low and dangerous while finally pushing into him at a torturously slow pace. Bart quaked as he was stretched, and he stared toward the mirror without seeing much other than the confirmation that Christian was successfully ravishing him.

 

 

When he was fully sheathed, Christian dropped his lips next to Bart’s ear. “Fuck, baby, you feel so fucking good around my dick.” His arms were shaking violently with the effort of pacing himself. He shifted experimentally but froze when Bart arched up and clawed at his hips.

 

 

“Godohgodohgod!”

 

 

“That hurt?”

 

 

“No, Christian, I think I’m going to...I’m about to...” Bart sucked in desperate breaths as Christian continued not to move. “C-Christian, please, make me c-come...”

 

 

“Jesus, fuck...” Christian bit down on his neck as his hips began to pump steadily without his own permission.

 

 

Bart’s voice was lost in abandon as dramatic as any of his theatrics ever were. “I w-want to f-feel it-”

 

 

“Feel what-”

 

 

“Y-you-” Bart whined indignantly.

 

 

“Feel me what? Tell me what you want.”

 

 

“Christian...”

 

 

“Say it.” Christian tangled is hand in Bart’s hair and forced him to look at him. Bart’s lust-clouded eyes widened. “Let me hear that pretty fucking mouth of yours say you want me to blow my fucking load all inside your perfect little ass.”

 

 

Bart cried out as Christian slammed into him harder. “Y-yes! Christian! You filthy fucking animal! I w-want it! I w-want you to f-finish inside-”

 

 

“Say you want me to come in you. Beg me.”

 

 

Bart’s eyes went out of focus. “Please, Christian! Please! C-come in me! Mark me and make me yours and b-blow y-your load in me, Christian! I want to feel you come in me-”

 

 

“Holy fucking...”

 

 

Bart yipped when Christian hooked his arm under his leg and shoved himself deeper just as his hips began to stutter as he released into him. “Christian! Oh, god, I’m going to come to it! Christian-CHRISTIAN OH GOD-” Bart’s hands clawed around Christian’s body to pull him closer as the artist’s entire body shuddered with his climax.

 

 

After several minutes of catching their breath, Christian lifted to look down at him with a brow arched in question to tease him.

 

 

“D-don’t you look at me like that!”

 

 

“You are one dirty little-”

 

 

“I most certainly am not! You-you made me-”

 

 

“Made you what? Go ahead. I want to relive it. What did I make you do?” When Bart turned his head away and draped his arm over his eyes dramatically, Christian murmured into his ear. “You begged for my cock so pretty, sweetheart. Then you screamed out so nice how you wanted to feel my come all inside you.” He pulsed his hips once. “So, how’s it feel in there, then?”

 

 

“If you must know, I feel thoroughly debased! You monster! You...you complete deviant! I n-need to shower right now!”

 

 

“Alright.” Christian hummed peacefully. “Let’s go.” When Bart stiffened at the idea of him joining him, he moved his hips again. “Or we could stay here. I’m already getting hard again.”

 

 

“Christian!” Bart warned as he pressed his hands against the priest’s chest.

 

 

“Okay. Shower and I’ll jerk off all over you before we order some food, or stay here and I’ll make sure you can’t walk straight for a week?”

 

 

“Shower!”

 

 

Christian moaned. “So, you like it when I pin you to the wall and-”

 

 

“CHRISTIAN!”

 

 

And they lived happily and psychologically messed up ever after.

 

 

 


End file.
